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^ STORIES 
1961 

1 f the 

Edited by Irving T. 
and 

including the 1960 
of All 

Illustrated with the 
Year's Best Sports Photographs 

Baseball, football, boxing, racing, bas- 
ketball, golf, tennis, hockey, yachting, ice- 
boating, bowling, hunting, and the Olym- 
pics all are represented in this big an- 
nual edition of Marsh's and Ehre's now 
classic series. The 17-th edition is an ex- 
ceptionally fine collection: top events* 
well-known and little-known sports fig- 
ures, exciting, moving, and humorous mo- 
ments in a full year of sports covered in 
story and pictures. 

As before, the three prize stories were 
judged by John Chamberlain, John Hutch- 
ens, and Quentin Reynolds. Best News- 
Coverage Story is won for the second year 
in a row by Dick Young of the New York 
Daily News with It Isn't Over Yet, a story 
which manages to make even as one-sided 
a victory as the Yankees' 12-0 sixth-game 
World Series win over Pittsburgh an ex- 
citing one to read about. Bill Clark of the 

(continued on back flap) 

YA $3.95 



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Best sports stories of 1961 



796 B56 1961 61-20810 
Best sports stories of 



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NOV. . 196! 



BEST 'SPORTS STORIES 



198-r -- 



Edited by IRVING T. MARSH and EDWARD EHRE 

BEST 

Sports Stones 

1961 Edition 



A Panorama of the 1960 Sports Year 

INCLUDING THE 1960 CHAMPIONS OF ALL SPORTS 



WITH TWENTY-SIX OF THE YEAR'S 
BEST SPORTS PICTURES 



E. P. BUTTON & CO., INC. 
New York 1961 



Copyright, , 1961 by IRVING T. MARSH AND EDWARD EHRE 
All rights reserved. 



FIRST EDITION 

No part of this book may be reproduced 
in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer 
who wishes to quote brief passages in con- 
nection with a review written for inclusion 
in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast. 



Published simultaneously in Canada by 
Clarke, Irwin & Co., Ltd., of Toronto 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

BY THE WILLIAM BYRD PRESS 

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 45-35124 



t- 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Preface g 

THE PRIZE-WINNING STORIES OF 1960 

BEST NEWS-COVERAGE STORY 
It Isn't Over Yet, by Dick Young, New York Daily News . . 19 

BEST NEWS-FEATURE STORY 
It Ended in Silence, by Bill Clark, Syracuse Herald-American 23 

BEST MAGAZINE STORY 
Racing's Angriest Young Man, by Jimmy Breslin, True . . 27 

THE WORLD SERIES 

It's a Brand New Series, by Bob Hunter, Los Angeles Ex- 
aminer 43 

It's All Square Again, by Curley Grieve, San Francisco Ex- 
aminer 47 

Mazeroski Finishes It, by Bill Bryson, Des Moines Register 

and Tribune 51 

His Last Bow? by Red Smith, New York Herald Tribune . 54 

OTHER BASEBALL 

Boss of the Yankees, by Stanley Frank, Saturday Evening Post 57 

A Sad Day for Baseball, by Arthur Daley, New York Times . 69 
Journey to Jersey City, by Andy McCutcheon, Richmond 

News Leader 72 

Headhunt er with a Horsehide, by Al Stump, True .... 74 

My Kind a' Guy, by David Condon, Chicago Tribune ... 88 

The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf, by Dick Schaap, True . . 90 
The Many Moods of Mauch, by Furman Bisher, Atlanta 

Journal 104 

FOOTBALL 

The Eagles Fly Back, by Joseph M. Sheehan, New York Times 107 
Bombshell in Baltimore, by George Leonard, Nashville Ban- 
ner 112 

Football's Taking Over, by Roger Kahn, Sport 115 



6 Table of Contents 

Story-Book Finish, by Jerry Nason, Boston Globe . . . . 123 

From Riches to Rags, by Wells Twombly, Valley Times To- 
day 127 

Old Blister in Ivyland, by Blackie Sherrod, Dallas Times- 
Herald 130 

A Look at a Footballer, by Dan Jenkins, Fort Worth Press . 133 

BOXING 

They Can Come Back, by Royal Brougham, Seattle Post- 
Intelligencer 137 

Schmeling the Unreal, by Leonard Shecter, New York Post . 141 
From Nowhere to Nowhere, by Morton Moss, Los Angeles 

Examiner 144 

The Floyd Patterson I Know, by W. C. Heinz, Sport ... 147 
Dandy and Bully-Boy Draw, by Eddie Muller, San Francisco 

Examiner 158 

THE OLYMPIC GAMES 
The Best Bet that Lost, by Jesse Abramson, New York Herald 

Tribune 163 

Three American Flags Went Up, by Si Burick, Dayton Daily 

News 168 

Barefoot Boy, by Allison Danzig, New York Times . . . . 171 
The Most Exciting Five Minutes, by Tex Maule, Sports Illus- 
trated 175 

RACING 

"Get-Well" Horses, by Bob Barnet, Munde Star 181 

Bargain Baby, by Nelson Fisher, San Diego Union .... 185 

BASKETBALL 

"The Day Sing Sing Licked Us," by Edwin M. Barton, 

Coronet 189 

Unpredictable All-American, by Myron Cope, Saturday Eve- 
ning Post 194 

GOLF 

Lightning Strikes Twice, by Maxwell Stiles, Los Angeles Mir- 
ror News 205 

For Love A* Money, by Jim Atwater, Time 208 

Golf Magic j by Gene Cuneo, Erie (Pa.) Times 218 



Table of Contents 7 

TENNIS 

Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis, by Melvin Durslag, Saturday 

Evening Post 221 

There Once Was a Tennis Player, by Stan Isaacs, Newsday . 232 

HOCKEY 

Date with Destiny, by Don Selby, San Francisco Examiner , 235 

YACHTING 

Man Overboard! by Bill Robinson, Yachting 238 

ICEBOATING 

Winter's Wildest Sport, by Ralph Knight, Saturday Evening 

Post 242 

BOWLING 

The Methuselah of Bowling, by Bob Cole, Winston-Salem 

(N. C.) Journal-Sentinel 253 

HUNTING 
The Mule Deer, by Jack O'Connor, Outdoor Life . . . . 260 

GENERAL 

The 1960 All-America, by Stanley Woodward, New York 

Herald Tribune 270 

The Sounds of Sports, by Bob Addie, Washington Post . . 272 
Underneath the Table, by Jerry Izenberg, Newark Star- 
Ledger 274 

Let the Kids Play, by Hal Lebovitz, Cleveland Plain Dealer . 276 
From the Ivory Tower, by Bill Leiser, San Francisco Chroni- 
cle 278 

The Breed Called "Mutt," by Ray Haywood, Oakland (Cal.) 

Tribune 280 

FOR THE RECORD 

Champions of 1960 283 

Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 307 

26 of the Year's Best Sports Pictures 319 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Basket Hanger, by Paul J. Connell, Boston Globe .... 321 
Opening Day, by Ed Clarity, New York Daily News . . . . 321 
The Mighty Casey Goes Out,, by Herb Scharfman, Sports Il- 
lustrated 322 

Reception at Home, by Roy Miller, United Press Interna- 
tional 322 

An Umpire's Calling, by Art Chernechi, United Press Inter- 
national 323 

Pirate Dance, by Niels Lauritzen, Milwaukee Journal . . . 323 
The Last Big Hit, by Barney Stein, New York Post .... 324 
Queer Street, Next Stop! by Charles Hoff, New York Daily 

News 325 

Rocking Charity, by Charles Heckman, United Press Inter- 
national 325 

Bid Foiled, by Thomas P. Kinahan, Chicago's American . . 326 
All Is Glum, Chum, by Sam Mikulin, United Press Interna- 
tional 326 

Here Comes Ferguson, by Tony Cordaro, Des Moines Regis- 
ter and Tribune 327 

Man with a Block, by Ryan Sanders, Dayton Daily News . . 327 
Mercy Me! by Frank Berger, Chicago's American .... 328 
Uncomplimentary Closing, by Bob Flora, United Press In- 
ternational 329 

Pardon My Back, by Martin Blumenthal, Sport Magazine . 329 

"Splursh," by Gil Friedberg, Boston Globe 330 

Sorry, Wrong Number, by Larry Day, Des Moines Register 

and Tribune 330 

Seven-Foot Pin Wheel, by Edward T. Adams, Philadelphia 

Evening Bulletin 331 

Bragg Over, by George Miller, New York Journal- American 331 
Flying High, by Ken Ross, Memphis Press-Scimitar .... 332 
And He Walked Away Safely, by Larry Sharkey, Los Angeles 

Times 333 

The Hard Way, by Joel Schrank, United Press International 334 
Do It Yourself, by Herbert Ludford, United Press Interna- 
tional 334 

By a Tongue, by Thomas L. Shafer, United Press Interna- 

tional 335 

Mascot Emotes, by Bob Doty, Dayton Journal Herald . . . 336 

8 



PREFACE 



For their seventeenth consecutive effort, the editors of the Best 
Sports Stories anthologies come up with two first-time winners and 
one fourth-time champion. The four-time winner (and he is rapidly 
catching up with the two men who have won four and a half prizes 
Jesse Abramson and W. G. Heinz) is Dick Young, the ebullient 
baseball writer of the New York Daily News,, whose story on the 
sixth game of the 1960 World Series, It Isn't Over Yet, earned him 
the $250 award for the best news-coverage piece of the year. 

Mr. Young has another distinction. He is one of the very, very 
few who has taken a prize in consecutive years. He won last year 
with his story on the pennant-clinching victory of the Los Angeles 
Dodgers. In 1958, he won the feature award with his Obit on the 
Dodgers. In 1956, he captured the magazine prize with his The Out- 
la-wed SpitbalL Thus he has taken prizes in all three categories of 
the Best Sports Stories series. 

The first-time winners as determined by our judges John Cham- 
berlain, John Hutchens and Quentin Reynolds are Bill Clark, of 
the Syracuse Herald-American, for his first contribution, a feature 
story on Syracuse's first football defeat after 16 consecutive victories, 
and Jimmy Breslin, a free-lance writer, for his magazine piece on 
Willie Hartack that appeared in True. 

Breslin was the unanimous choice of the judges, a feat that hasn't 
been accomplished very often, but the competition for the best 
news-coverage award and the best news-feature award couldn't be 
closer. Young just managed to beat out Jesse Abramson's story, Story 
Book Finish, by one point as did Clark over Bob Cole's bowling 
story, The Methuselah of Bowling. Points are based on 3 for a first- 
place choice, 2 for a second and i for a third. 

As in the past, the judges received the entries not knowing who 
wrote them or where they appeared. Each was identified only by 
what is known in newspaper terminology as a "slug." 

This is the box score of the judging: 



io Preface 

News-Coverage Stories 

Chamber- Hutch- Reyn- *Total 

lain ens olds Pts. 

Young's It Isn't Over Yet 3 2 5 

Abramson's Story Book Finish 3 i 4 

Brougham's They Can Come Back . $ 3 

Selby's Date with Destiny 2 i 3 

Muller's Dandy and Bully-Boy Draw 12 3 

News-Features 

Clark's It Ended in Silence 3 3 6 

Cole's The Methuselah of Bowling 23 5 

Daley's Sad Day for Baseball 2 2 4 

Isaacs's There Once Was a Tennis 

Player i i 

Shecter's Schmeling the Unreal i i 

Twombly's From Riches to Rags ... i i 

Magazine Stories 

Breslin's Racing's Angriest Young 

Man 3 3 3 9 

Heinz's The Floyd Patterson I Know 1214 
Schaap's The Fox Who Plays Like a 

Wolf i 2 3 

Barton's "The Day Sing Sing Licked 

Us" 2 2 



* Based on 3 points for a first, 2 for a second and i for a third choice. 

The judges commented as follows: 

JOHN CHAMBERLAIN 

News-Coverage 

1. Thomas (Abramson's Story Book Finish). 

2. Hockey (Selby's Date With Destiny). 

3. Robinson (Muller's Dandy and Bully-Boy Draw). 

i. It can't be that baseball stories are old stories I liked all the 
examples of World Series coverage that were submitted. But good 



Preface 1 1 

as the baseball coverage was (or the football, about the Philadelphia 
Eagles or Navy's Joe Bellino, for that matter), I found myself re- 
acting with greater ardor to the stuff about the Olympics. The one 
about the upsetting of John Curtis Thomas and the defeat of other 
Americans at Rome is a first-rate failure story give it No. i rating. 

2. For No. 2, I'd choose "Hockey," the story of the U. S. ice 
hockey success at Squaw Valley. This combines the overall news of 
how all the teams came out in the Olympics with good particulari- 
zation about individual American players. 

3. For No. 3, "Robinson" this is good clear writing about the 
perennial comeback ability of Ray Robinson, but it doesn't skimp 
on attention to Fullmer, the man who tied the challenger. 

News-Feature 

1. Syracuse (Clark's It Ended in Silence). 

2. Bowling (Cole's The Methuselah of Bowling). 

3. Tennis (Isaacs' There Once Was a Tennis Player). 

1. Remembering one of last year's stories about Syracuse, the 
"Beast from the East," this year's news-feature about Syracuse in 
defeat had a special kick. The way the writer played on the element 
of silence, at first growing, then complete, made it almost physically 
palpable. It gets No. i billing with me. 

2. For No. 2, 1 liked "Bowling" it's a beautiful character sketch 
of Sarge Easter, a real character. 

3. For No. 3, the strange but heart-warming bit about the Nepa- 
lese tennis player who wouldn't put the fact that his uncle is a prime 
minister of Nepal on his entry blank for Forest Hills. 

And for honorable mention, there are "Schmeling" (Leonard 
Shecter's Schmeling the Unreal), about a man who has "edited" 
his past, and "Graham" (Wells Twombly's From Riches to Rags), 
or the joys of being a low-pressure football coadi, a couple of pieces 
about Casey Stengel and another on being a Cuban ballplayer 
("Jose" Andy McCutcheon's Journey to Jersey City) in the time 
of Castro, and but lots of the pieces are good. 

Magazine Stories 

1. Hartack (Breslin's Racings Angriest Young Man). 

2. Sing Sing (Barton's {i The Day Sing Sing Licked Us"). 

3. Floyd (Heinz's The Floyd Patterson I Know). 



12 Preface 

i 2. Reading the magazine stories, and grading them as if I were 
a professor, I found to my consternation that I had handed out 
eleven A-minuses in a total of fifteen submitted starters. (And a 
couple of the others merited strong B pluses). Obviously, you can't 
have eleven ties for first place. Letting the A minuses simmer for a 
day, I found that the character of Bill (Can't-Bear-to-Lose) Hartack 
remained more vivid than any other save that of Corwin, the 
Sing Sing basketball player. Inasmuch as the story about Hartack 
and his hates is more substantial than the one slugged "Sing Sing," 
I'd make it primus inter pares among the A-minuses. In brief, "Har- 
tack" for No. i and "Sing Sing" for No. 2. 

3. As for No. 3, "Floyd" has a sharp angle it's convincing about 
Patterson's gentleness and shyness. 

But even without angles, the stories about Nellie Fox, Don 
Drysdale, George Weiss, Jeny West (the basketballer) and Arnold 
Palmer are all remarkably well done. I also like the pieces about 
iceboating and the man-overboard-in-the-Bermuda-race. As inti- 
mated before, the magazine sports story is so much on a high level 
that it's hard to choose any single one as "best." 

JOHN HUTCHENS 

News-Coverage 

1. 6th Game (Young's It Isn't Over Yet). 

2. Robinson (Muller's Dandy and Bully-Boy Draw). 

3. Thomas (Abramson's Story Book Finish). 

1. Just offhand you would say that any baseball writer, no matter 
how accomplished, would be put to it to get a stirring story out of a 
12-0 game. How does he find drama, not to say suspense, in that? 
But this narrative of the lacing handed to the Pirates by the Yankees 
in the 1960 World Series' sixth game holds the attention by shrewdly 
directing the reader's eye to details Stengel's concern over starting 
Ford; the Yankees' record for hits and runs even while, incredibly, 
losing three games; the Pittsburgh crowd's role as the day went 
on; etc. 

2. Perhaps because I happened to miss the Robinson-Fullmer 
fight on television. I read this story with a special interest. My 
admiration for it reflects the feeling it gave me that, as I read about 
the fight here, I was in fact seeing and hearing it, complete with 
the noise, the see-saw tide of action, the desperate finish. 



Preface 13 

3. I'd give a nod to the Olympics story on grounds of (a) style 
and phrasing, and (b) the smooth organization of the piece as it 
moves on from its stark, startling lead to a variety of other events 
and people. The background material is handled with a clarifying 
adroitness for the sports reader, like this one, whose knowledge of 
track history is meager. 

News-Features 

1. Bowling (Cole's The Methuselah of Bowling). 

2. Stengel (Daley's A Sad Day for Baseball). 

3. Schmeling (Shecter's Schmeling the Unreal). 

1. Speaking of entertainments unfamiliar to this observer, bowl- 
ing is even farther removed than track. But there is an irresistible 
quality about this genuine character study of a man so absolutely 
dedicated to a sport as the Old Sarge is. If the writer of it had 
happened to be a novelist, he might well have made a first-class 
short novel of this life. 

2. There's a fine, cold contempt, along with a sharp reportorial 
eye, in this column on the firing of Casey Stengel. To this reader, 
who allows for his own bias in favor of a great manager unjustly 
treated, it seems that the writer except for that unnecessary sob 
at the end of the piece says it all with the kind of directness that 
lets the event speak for itself. 

3. A subtle job, this one on the returning Max Schmeling. 
Irony? More than a little of it. Suspicion of the German's sincerity 
and good will? Some of that, too. But also a willingness- to let the 
reader decide for himself on the basis of the impression that subject 
is allowed to make. 

Magazine Stories 

1. Hartack (Breslin's Racing's Angriest Young Man). 

2. Floyd (Heinz's The Floyd Patterson I Know). 

3. Fox (Schaap's The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf). 

1. Here again a writer is playing fair with a sport's figure who is 
something less than everybody's hero. The point is, by the time the 
piece has run its course you understand as you would be unlikely 
to have done before the character and ruling motivations of the 
man into the corners of whose life you have been so skillfully taken. 

2. A first-rate example of interview alternating with commentary 



14 Preface 

on and analysis of the interviewee a form not often seen, and an 
extremely effective one when practiced as well as it is in this ex- 
ploration of a champion without some of the usual traits of a cham- 
pion. 

3. There is nothing in the way of innovation in this straightway 
profile of a ballplayer, but a great deal that is entirely satisfying 
about it the facts and figures, the background and the personality, 
the relating of the player to a tradition that antedates him. Solid 
ball player, solid story. 

QUENTIN REYNOLDS 
News-Coverage 

1. Patterson (Broughan's They Can Come Back). 

2. 6th Game (Young's It Isn't Over Yet). 

3. Thomas (Abramson's Date With Destiny). 

1. My No. i pick is the story about Floyd Patterson's victory over 
Ingemar Johansson. This was not only a good account of the fight; 
it was a good hunk of writing under terrific pressure. I would say 
this story edges out even such a magnificent entry as the story of the 
sixth World Series game. 

2. The story of the sixth World Series game which tied up our 
baseball classic is my second choice. There were several good 
stories written about the exciting and decisive seventh game, but 
it took real journalistic class to write a fascinating story about a 
one-sided 12-0 victory and this man did it. And while telling the 
story of the game he tossed in a lot of good writing to boot. 

3. I give the No. 3 spot to the story of the defeat of John Curtis 
Thomas in the Olympic Games. The writer had to chronicle not 
only the defeat of Thomas but half a dozen other events on the 
day's program. He did not merely record the winners; he drama- 
tized the events and he humanized the Olympic heroes. Obviously 
he did a lot of homework. Pretty good reporting, pretty good 
writing, 

News-Features 

1. Syracuse (Clark's It Ended in Silence). 

2. Stengel (Daley's A Sad Day for Baseball). 

3. Graham (Twombly's From Riches to Rags). 



Preface 15 

1. What is the best feature story of 1960? The one I liked best 
was the story of how the Syracuse University football team, after 
a i6-game winning streak, was finally beaten by Pittsburgh. The 
story does not describe the game itself; that had already been done 
by on-the-spot sports reporters. It told instead of what happened 
in the dressing room to the heart-broken players and to their well- 
liked coach, Ben Schwartzwalder. 

2. Perhaps I am prejudiced because I am a baseball fan, but I 
like for this spot what amounted to the obituary of Casey Stengel. 
I thought that Casey was the best and that his forced "resignation" 
was something that will deprive my hometown of New York of a 
fascinating, colorful character. 

3. My No. 3 choice is the story of the football coach of the United 
States Coast Guard Academy. His name is Otto Graham and I re- 
member him as a dark-eyed, bushy-haired, ice-cold T quarterback 
who made the Cleveland Browns the most genuinely feared team 
in the National Football League. 

Magazine Stories 

1. Hartack (Breslin's Racing's Angriest Young Man). 

2. Fox (Schaap's The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf). 

3. Floyd (Heinz's The Floyd Patterson I Know). 

1. Some unknown (to me) writer broke with tradition to dissect 
William Hartack, the sy-year-old jockey who has won, two Kentucky 
Derbys, and a few hundred other classics. This story on the pint- 
sized kid who came out of poverty of a Pennsylvania mining town 
to bludgeon a fortune out of riding dumb four-footed animals is 
a classic and to me, at least, wins the award for the best magazine 
reporting of the year. 

2. My nomination for No. 2 is the story of another tough guy, 
Nellie Fox of the Chicago White Sox. The writer of this fine article 
has done a great deal more than present Nellie Fox as a ballplayer; 
he has presented him as a man. It is a human story of the amiable 
man who two years ago was named Most Valuable Player in the 
American League. 

3. I gave the No. 3 spot to the story about Floyd Patterson be- 
cause it is the only piece I have ever read that completely rational- 
izes this complex, rather mixed-up youngster who, at this writing, 
is the heavyweight champion of the world. It is written by someone 



16 Preface 

(I don't know his name) who has obviously spent a great deal of 
time analyzing this quiet introvert. 

And about the picture winners: 

Both also are first-time selectees. Paul Council's photo of Torn 
Heinsohn literally hanging on a basket and called "Basket Hanger" 
has tremendous action. The feature photo that won the award, Ed 
Clarity's "Opening Day/' has, it seems to us, pathos as well as humor. 

This, therefore, ladies and gentlemen, is Best Sports Stories 
1961. As Harry Golden says, "Enjoy, Enjoy." 

IRVING T. MARSH 
EDWARD EHRE 



THE PRIZE-WINNING STORIES 



THE PRIZE-WINNING STORIES 
BEST NEWS-COVERAGE STORY 



IT ISN'T OVER YET 
(World Series Game VI) 

By Dick Young 

From The New York Daily News 
Copyright, , 1960, The New York Daily News 



As Dr. Dafoe said when he handed the fourth Dionne baby to 
the nurse, 'This thing ain't over yet." The 1960 World Series is 
going into the seventh game. It is going the limit because the never- 
fold Yankees, staring elimination in its frightening face, today re- 
bounded from two straight beatings to schalump the Bucs, 12-0 ... 
because Whitey Ford fired his second shutout of the Series . . . 
because Bobby Richardson blasted two triples, and Yogi Berra 
sprayed three hits, and because the Yankee infield synchronized 
three more DFs. 

But the Series is going on without Ellie Howard. The Yankee 
catcher, cracked on the right hand by a Bob Friend pitch in the 
second stanza, sustained a fractured pinky. He will miss only one 
game, and be ready for the Yankee opener next spring. 

Also broken were 38,580 hearts, the Pitt fans who sat in crushed 
silence, trying to hide their "Beat 'em Bucs" souvenirs. One thing 
about these Bucs, when they lose them, they lose them. The three 
Yankee victories to date have been by 16-3, 10-0 and now 12-0. 
Today's, in fact, was the biggest margin by which any team, has 
won a shutout in Series annals. 

Those three abominations have enabled the Yanks to shred the 
pages of the record book. To date, they have cracked 78 hits in 
the Series; a record. They have scored 46 runs; a record. Bobby 
Richardson, the man with the small muscles, now totals 12 RBI; 
a record. And there's still a game left. 

Whitey Ford also made the book with his seventh Series victory 
tying the achievements of his Yankee antecedents, Red Ruffing 

19 



20 Dick Young 

and Allie Reynolds. There was immense satisfaction in this particu- 
lar victory for Ford. Till now, he hadn't won a Series game outside 
Yankee Stadium and no player relishes being tagged with a one- 
park reputation. Whitey especially; he's class. 

How much class can be contemplated from the fact that Whitey 
developed a finger-tip blister on his middle finger at mid-game. 
He could have asked out when the manager inquired about the 
annoyance, but Ford simply said to Stengel: "I'll just have to pitch 
a little harder, that's all." 

He did. As the game wore on, Whitey seemed to get better, de- 
spite his finger, and despite the huge lead which had boomed to 
6-0 as early as the third frame, when the Yanks scored five times. 

Stengel had no intention of staying with Ford too long. This 
was no time to be building character. Before the game, in fact, 
Stengel went to Ford and said: "Look now, I don't want you to 
pitch if you feel you're not ready with three days' rest/' (Note: 
Ford usually gets four or five days.) 

Ford tested his left arm with an inordinately long pre-game 
warmup; some 20 minutes instead of the customary 15. "I'm okay," 
he said to Stengel. 

Moments later, Casey must have wondered if he had been 
conned. Virdon led with a ringing single to right-center. Groat hit 
the ball sharply, but Richardson gobbled it up on the right side 
to start a DP. Clemente followed with a slasher through the right 
side. In the bullpen, Turley and Shantz were throwing hurriedly. 

But Ford fanned Stuart for the third out, and that was to be the 
only inning in which the Bucs stroked two hits. Whitey fanned 
just five, and none after the fifth frame. He didn't have the good 
fast ball, but his curve crackled, and that is reflected in the fact 
that 17 outs were recorded on ground balls. 

Ford was to have only one sweat after that first frame and then, 
too, he wiped his brow with a DP pitch. It was the fifth. Hal Smith, 
who rapped two of Pitt's seven singles, led with a shot up the 
middle. Hoak walked, so did Stengel, taking a slow stroll to the 
mound to ask Whitey what was the matter. The blister had formed 
by then. 

"If you can't do it," Stengel later quoted himself as having told 
Ford, "I don't want you to try to pitch on your guts. I want to 
know." 

That's when Ford said he'd simply have to pitch a little harder. 



It Isn't Over Yet 21 

No sooner had Stengel plopped back on the bench than Ford 
slipped his DP pill to Mazeroski. Smith had reached third the only 
Bucco to venture beyond first this day. Ford nailed him there by 
whiffing pinch-swinger Rocky Nelson and thereafter it was a breeze. 

Friend was starting with five days' rest, something he doesn't 
particularly care for. He prefers three or four. He had worked 
game 2, last Thursday. That time Bob was pulled in the fourth for 
a pinch-swinger. This time he couldn't get through the third. 

It is a paradox of pitchers that they sometimes have excessive 
rest; that their ball moves too much and their control suffers. Friend 
and his batterymate, Hal Smith, both contend this was the case. 

Friend's control got him in trouble in the second. With one 
down, he threw four straight balls to Berra. Skowron then singled 
through the right side, and a sailing fast ball pinned Howard's 
hand to his bat. As Ellie went off to the hospital for the X-rays 
that were to discern the fracture of the fifth metacarpel, Eli Grba 
trotted to first as Howard's pinch-runner. 

The bags were full with one down, but the Yanks were to get 
just one run from the cushy setup. Nobody could move on Richard- 
son's short fly to center, so Ford got his own run. He cracked a hot- 
shot one-hopper back at Friend. Bob slapped it down, chased it to- 
ward the third-base line and, sensing no possible play at first, fired 
home much too late to force Yogi. 

With one in and the bags still loaded, Clete Boyer, the lead-off 
man, whiffed, stranding all. This was Friend's brief moment of tri- 
umph. It also was a crusher for Boyer, who had been yanked 
for a pinch-hitter in the second stanza of game i, and who was 
thirsty for vindication. He was to get it later with a booming triple. 

Before then, however, there was to be another Yankee triple by 
another alleged no stickman. It was Richardson, who has become 
the most dangerous No. 8 hitter in World Series history. Bobby 
came up with the bags full in the third to cap New York's five-run 
crowd-silencer. 

The rumpus began when Kubek was nicked by a brush-back. 
Then Roger Maris, a three-hit man for the day, doubled off the 
screen in right and Mantle singled up the middle for two runs. 
When Berra cracked his first of three singles up the middle, 
Danny Murtaugh made his first pitching change. 

But the Yanks didn't look at it as losing a Friend; they were 
gaining a pal, Tom Cheney. Skowron drove a liner to right-center, 



22 Dick Young 

where Clemente hauled it down on the run. Mantle tagged up and 
scored easily on that one. 

Johnny Blanchard, Howard's sub, was up. Johnny is third- 
string catcher, behind Berra and Ellie. He also is an impatient 
young man. The night before, when Stengel was talking of drastic 
lineup changes, Blanchard had said: 

"If I get the chance to play, I'll show everybody something. I'll 
either be the hero or the goat." 

He was one of the heroes. He was to lace three hits in four 
swings; this time a single up the middle, the other two doubles 
off the right screen. 

Blanchard's single brought up Muscles Richardson. Cheney's 
pitch came in fast, and went out faster, winging toward the score- 
board. Left fielder Gino Cimoli, who for days had been worried 
about the fly-chasing mirages in Yankee Stadium, played this one 
as though on the Sahara Desert. He ran back, circled like a man 
lost, lurched, and then began chasing the carom as the ball banged 
ofi the Scoreboard, no more than a very catchable two feet above 
the base of it. 

By the time the ball came in, Rich was on third and two more 
runs were over. The score was 6-0. The game was over, and the 
natives were restless. They were to sit in gloomy silence, punctu- 
ated only by boos and mock cheers and sometimes disgusted 
laughter as the Yanks poured it on the second-line Buc pitching, 
which had been so pathetically ineffective. 

Mizell, an utter failure as a game 3 starter, worked two score- 
less frames as Cheney's successor. Then came the batting practice 
boys. Fred Green, a pitiable figure, faced just three men as the 
Yanks scored two in the sixth. Boyer blasted his redemptive triple 
over Clemente's head, Kubek singled to right. So did Maris. 

Murtaugh came out to tell Green he could have the rest of the 
Series off. In three relief bits, totaling four frames, Fred had been 
raked for 11 hits and 12 runs. 

Clem Labine took the abuse at the end; two runs in the seventh, 
two more in the eighth. These rub-ins included Blanchard's two 
doubles and a repeat triple by Richardson down the left-center 
slot. There also was a fine squeeze home of Rich by Ford. 

By then, half the fans had left to see what else could be done on 
this American holiday. The Pitt manager didn't find cause for re- 
joicing. The Murtaughs never do celebrate Columbus Day, anyway. 



BIST NEWS-FEATURE STORY 



IT ENDED IN SILENCE 
By Bill Clark 

From The Syracuse Herald-American 
Copyright, , 1960, The Syracuse Herald-American 



This is the way the longest winning streak in college football 
came to an end: Not with a bang! Not with a whimperl But in 
complete silence. 

On the Syracuse bench, you could feel the Orange's i6-game 
streak dying from the first quarter on. It was a slow death a linger- 
ing, brutal, frustrating thing that tore emotion out of the Orange- 
men. 

The warm sun of a perfect October Saturday shone directly into 
their eyes as the Orange alternates and bench-bound reserves knelt 
in front of their benches. It made them squint as they anxiously 
followed every play. 

Earlier, cries of encouragement to the players on the field were 
many: "Hit them guys! That's a baby way to hit!" Come on you 
guys, let's go!" "Get tough, gang!" 

Only the passage of time dulled the spirited yells from the bench. 
Expressionless faces alternately glanced at the action on the field 
and the Scoreboard clock as the game lumbered into its final 
minutes. 

Pitt was still moving relentlessly forward, running out the clock 
and all of Syracuse's hopes. Despite the warm sun, the chill of ap- 
proaching defeat made Ben Schwartzwalder put on his warmup 
jacket. He stood silently in front of the bench, arms on hips, 
sternly watching and waiting for what was now inevitable. 

To one kneeling there, the only feeling was the soggy cold of 
the soft, wet turf seeping through the pants legs about the knees. 

The eyes could see the blue and gold clad Panthers and the 
Orange and White Syracusans ramming into each other with a little 
less authority than they had earlier. 



24 Bill Clark 

The ears heard the single hand-clap of the Pitt players as they 
left their huddle. There was the rhythmic guttural "uh, uh, uh" 
of the Pitt quarterback as he called his signals . . . and thud, thud, 
thud, of hard running feet ... the official's whistle as he came 
running up to announce the death of another play. The PA system 
called off each advance, who made it, and who stopped it ... a 
trumpeter in the Pitt band across the way kept blowing "charge." 

Finally, it was over. Then came the long walk across the field. 
For many of the Orangemen it was their first walk off a college 
gridiron in defeat. Helmets in hand, they walked directly into the 
still high-in-the-sky sun. Their shadows trailed off behind them 
at each step. 

Into the field stand area they walked. The stands formed a tunnel 
of staring humanity which led into the real tunnel leading on to 
the locker rooms. 

The stares of the spectators were cruel. Most of the Syracuse 
players kept their heads bowed to avoid the looks. The players 
said nothing. Some spectators who had quickly forgotten the long 
string of 16 wins yelled abuse like "Ya bums, you're no good, ya 
deserved to lose." One of these loyal fans figured his $4.50 admis- 
sion charge entitled him to throw his program down on the players 
in rage. 

Inside the locker room, the silence of the players continued. No 
one banged down a helmet, no one threw off his jersey in rage, no 
one kicked a locker. In many places, tears welled in the corners of 
eyes. But none were shed. The Orange lost like men. 

The Hillmen took defeat as devoid of outward signs of emotion 
as they had taken many of their most glorious victories sans out- 
ward signs of elation. Inwardly, though, the boys were tearing 
their hearts out with rage. 

This inward tension exploded alongside the bench late in the 
ball game. A loudmouth stood there calling Ben Schwartzwalder 
some awful names. Ben did nothing about the name caller. Gary 
Fallon and some other reserves did: they leaped upon him and beat 
the daylights out of him. 

In the dressing room, the still mute players shed their equip- 
ment. Not one word was spoken until their head coach came and 
asked: 

"May I have your attention, please? Don't let this throw you. 
We have three more games to play you can go a long way down 



It Ended in Silence 25 

or a long way up. Knowing you, I believe you will come back from 
this defeat against Army next week." 

The players almost cheered but they had already shown out be- 
side the bench what they think of Benny, 

The silence returned, broken only by the increasing splash of water 
from the shower room as the players washed away the sweat and 
grime of play. One of the showers splashed on long after all the 
players had departed the locker room. 

Upstairs, Ben, and aides Rocky Pirro, Roy Simmons, Bill Bell 
and Ted Dailey sat quietly on benches. The bright sun splashed 
through an open window. If the Orange had lost to a lesser team 
than Pitt, the beautiful day would have been a terrible mockery. 

But as Ben said: "Pitt beat us. It was no fluke. They were the 
best team out there today. They outplayed us and we have no 
alibis." 

Simmons, who had scouted Pitt, mused "we just gave them the 
ball too many times. Pitt played a normal game for them. But pre- 
viously this year, they didn't get the opportunities they got today. 
And they didn't pass today as much as usual, of course, they didn't 
have to." 

Bell thought "our kids may have tried too hard. They were 
not loose on offense the way you must be." 

As for outstanding players on both sides, Ben said "We saw too 
much of that (Mike) Ditka. Pete Brokaw was our best^ back he's 
a souped-up kid. Freddie Mautino did all right for us/' 

Simmons praised Pitt fullback Jim Cunningham. "He had a 
good day offensively and defensively. I thought Tom Gilburg 
played a fine game in our line." 

Ben commented on Ernie Davis' fumbles. "Ernie said he got 
hit before he got the ball we just weren't blocking for our backs/ 1 

Ben thought the Orange defensive play was all right. "I figured 
we would need three touchdowns to win. As it turned out, we 
could have won with two. We've got to keep our defense where 
it is and pick up our offense." 

Ben thought his kids' reaction to defeat was okay. "They acted 
civilized and took it like gentlemen." 

"Next week is Army and a new season. We've got to forget 
about Pitt until next year. Losing is always hard, but if somebody 
had to beat us and we knew somebody did I don't object to 
Pitt being the ones to do it" 



26 Bill Clark 

"Well, I might as well take a shower," Ben tried to joke, "there's 
no use staying dirty." 

Ben was hurt to the core, but like his players, he wasn't showing 
it any more than he could help. 



BEST MAGAZINE STORY 



RACING'S ANGRIEST YOUNG MAN 
By Jimmy Breslin 

From True 
Copyright, , 1960, Jimmy Breslin 



The shack was on stilts so the floor wouldn't be against the 
ground in wintertime. But it didn't matter because when you went 
out to the creek for drinking water and brought it back in a basin, 
the way Bill Hartack had to before dinner every night, any of it that 
would drip on the floor quickly turned to ice. A pot-bellied stove 
was the only warm thing in shack number 371 and this does not 
constitute a heating system, even for a tiny three-room shack. But 
it was all they had because Hartack's father worked at soft coal in 
the mines around Golver, Pennsylvania, and there was no money 
in this. Nor was there much of a life in the shack. Hartack's mother 
had been killed when he was 7 and he had to raise his two sisters 
while his father dug coal. 

You always remember this when you tell about Bill Hartack, the 
talented jockey who is one of the most controversial people in sports. 
It might make him easier to understand, you think. 

But then Hartack will be at a race track, acting the way he did at 
Ghurchill Downs last May 7, and you forget everything because 
there is only one way to describe him. You say, simply, that his 
attitude is to hell with everybody and you have captured Hartack. 

At 4:30 that afternoon, a guy in khaki work shirt and pants who 
is an assistant starter at Churchill Downs came up to Hartack's 
horse, a blaze-faced colt named Venetian Way. The guy took the 
horse by the bit, let him prance for a moment, then led him into 
stall number nine of the starting gate so they could begin the Ken- 
tucky Derby. 

When the 14 horses all were locked into the gate, they slammed 
nervously into the tin sides and fronts of the stalls and the jockeys 

27 



28 Jimmy Breslin 

were calling "Not yet" and "No chance, boss" to the starter and 
there was a lot of noise and tension. Then the bell rang and the 
gate clacked open and, with riders yelping, the horses came out. 
Each made a leap first, because a race horse always is surprised to 
see the ground when the gate opens and he jumps at it. Then the 
horses started to run with the long, beautiful stride of a thorough- 
bred and there was a roar from the big crowd. 

Hartack pushed Venetian Way into fourth, then took a snug 
hold on the reins. His horse was full of run, but Hartack wanted to 
keep him fourth, just off the leaders, and he stayed there until 
they were running down the backstretch. Then it turned into no 
contest. Bally Ache, one of the favorites, was leading. But not by 
enough. Tompion, the top choice, was in third position but he 
was creaking. On the final turn, Hartack let his horse out. Venetian 
Way made a big move and simply ran past Bally Ache as they 
swung by the five-sixteenth pole and headed into the long stretch. 

With the thousands of people screaming from the three-decked 
stands, Venetian Way began widening the space. Hartack seemed 
to become frantic as his horse took over the race. He was whipping 
with his left hand and rolling from side to side in the saddle, the 
way the book says a jockey should not ride but the way Hartack 
always does. At the eight-pole Venetian Way had four lengths and 
Hartack was a wild, all-out jock giving the horse the kind of ride 
you must have when the purse is $160,000. Venetian Way won big. 

After the winner's circle ceremonies, Hartack came into the 
crowded jockeys' room. At Churchill Downs, everything is a rotting, 
soot-covered mess and the jocks' room isn't much better. It is clut- 
tered and steamy and, at this moment, was mobbed with reporters. 
It didn't look like much of a place, but it always has been one of the 
great sights in a jockey's life. You love everything when you win a 
Derby and it is all one big thrill of money. 

But Hartack came into the room with that quick, long stride of 
his and his brown eyes flashed. He gave the reporters a dark look 
and said nothing as he went to his locker. He was obviously about 
to make a scene. There was no sense trying to relate him to a shack 
in Pennsylvania now. 

The explosion came the moment the first newsman opened his 
mouth. "Willie," he began, "when did you think you had the race 
won?" 

"Jeeezl" Hartack snapped. "Don't call me Willie. That's disre- 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 29 

spectful. The name is Bill. And that is a stupid question. I stopped 
answering that one forty years ago. When you ask me an intelligent 
question I'll answer you." 

People are encountered in all walks of life with a chip on their 
shoulder because of harsh backgrounds. But you would have to be 
born of Murder, Inc. to be this angry after winning a Kentucky 
Derby. 

For those who did not walk out on this blast, Hartack had a short 
description of the race, along with his usual course in journalism for 
those present. Reporters, he said, misquote him. And, he made it 
clear, newspapermen bother him. In fact, he didn't want to be 
bothered by anything except riding. Then he left to ride a horse in 
the eighth race. He finished second and was even madder after that. 
To hell with everything, Hartack says, except getting home first on a 
horse. 

Winning horse races is something he can do. He has had two 
winners and a second in four Kentucky Derby rides. He won a Bel- 
mont Stakes, a Preakness, two Florida Derbys, the Flamingo, the 
Woodward, Arlington Classic. He has won virtually every major 
race the sport has and you can tap out that this is going to be the 
story for years to come. Just as big as the story they will go on mak- 
ing out of Hartack's behavior. For this is a kid who simply will not 
bend. It is either his way or you can go home, and most people don't 
like his way. 

Two days after the Kentucky Derby, Hartack was sitting in the 
coffee shop of the Bo-Bet Motel, which is a short distance away 
from the Garden State Race Track in Camden, New Jersey. He had 
on a black sports jacket and gray slacks and a crisp white shirt which 
was open at the collar. He is 27, but he looks younger because he is 
only 5 feet, 4 inches and weighs 114 pounds. But when he toyed 
with the cup of coffee in front of him and started to talk you could 
see this was no little kid who could be moved around easily. And the 
guys at the table with him Felix Bocchicchio, the old fight manager 
who owns the motel, Scratch Sheet Pestano, the jockey's agent, and a 
couple of newspapermen did all the listening. 

"There's only one thing that counts," Hartack was saying. "Words 
don't mean anything. They can misquote me all they want or write 
something bad about me, but the only thing that counts is the chart 
of last Saturday's race. It says Venetian Way, number one. It don't 
say nothing else. And nobody can change it. Everything else, they 



go Jimmy Breslin 

can have. The only thing I'm accountable for in this business is the 
race I ride. I have to stand up for the owner of the horse, the trainer 
and the people who bet on him. And I have to see another jock 
doesn't get hurt because of me. I don't have to worry about anything 
else. And I wish they wouldn't worry about me. Everybody is trying 
to run my life so hard they haven't got time to run their own." 

He jammed a filter-tip cigarette between his teeth and started to 
light it. His speech was over. And he had left very little room for 
rebuttal. No matter what he was like, he had just brought home a 
6-1 shot in the biggest race in America, and you had no argument. 

You rarely do. Six weeks later, he came out of the gate in the Bel- 
mont Stakes aboard an 8-1 shot named Celtic Ash and for a half mile 
he held Celtic Ash back 10 lengths off the leaders. That was how he 
had been told to ride the late-running horse and Hartack followed 
instructions to the stride. First money was $96,785 and Hartack 
would get 10 per cent of it, but this didn't cause him to get jumpy 
and move up his horse too early, as nearly all of them do. He just 
sat there, way out of it. It took strong nerves. At the half-mile pole 
he moved to the outside to get a clear path in front of him. Going 
into the last big turn, he finally let Celtic Ash out. Then he started 
to slam and kick and push at the horse and it all worked out. Har- 
tack came into the stretch with a live horse under him and won by 
five and a half lengths over Venetian Way with whom Hartack 
had parted company after the Preakness because of a disagreement 
with the trainer. It's hard to argue against winners that pay 8-1. 

Vic Sovinski, Venetian Way's trainer, found this out. He is a big 
ex-baker from Kankakee, Illinois, who has been accused of training 
a horse as if he were slapping together a tray of prune Danish. At 
Louisville, before the Derby, Sovinski was around knocking Har- 
tack's brains out over the way Bill had ridden the horse in a warmup 
race the week before. Sovinski wanted the horse worked out an extra 
two furlongs after the finish, Hartack, who found the muddy going 
was bothering his horse, didn't push Venetian Way during the work. 
Sovinski said he loafed. Hartack thought he had saved the horse 
from being senselessly worn out. The press, always receptive to 
knocks on Hartack, trumpeted Sovinski's views. The Derby, of 
course, took care of that argument. 

But after Venetian Way ran a poor fifth in the Preakness, Sovinski 
blew up again and yanked Hartack off him. The jockey promptly 
jumped on Celtic Ash. Then he explained the case of Venetian Way. 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 31 

"Horses reach a peak, then they need a layoff/' he said after the 
Preakness. "Venetian Way needed a freshener. He didn't get it. So 
he ran two races back in the pack. Then he was up again and ran. 
second in the Belmont. Was I glad to beat him in the Belmont? 
What do I care? I don't have time to worry about particular horses 
I beat. I just want to beat them all." 

In the Venetian Way case, Hartack was mostly silent for one of 
the few times in his career. This was because there was a steady 
stream of talk around the tracks that Venetian Way had been a sore- 
footed horse and only an analgesic called butazolidin had soothed 
him at Churchill Downs. It was ruled illegal at the Preakness and 
elsewhere, Hartack did not care to get into any discussion of this. 

But in just about every other storm to come up during his career, 
he has been in there saying exactly what was on his mind. Because 
of this, people constantly compare him to baseball's Ted Williams. 
This is an untrue comparison. Williams is nasty, in general, only to 
sportswriters and spectators. When stacked against Hartack's style, 
this is like hating Russia. Anybody can do it. 

Hartack goes all the way. He takes on anybody, from a groom to a 
steward or an owner of horses or a track itself and if he thinks he 
is right you can throw in Eisenhower, too, because while he can be 
tough and unmannerly and anything else they say about him he is 
not afraid. 

He is a little package of nerves who has been suspended for using 
abusive language to stewards, for fighting with another jockey, for 
leaving the track and not finishing his day's riding because he lost 
a photo finish. He snaps at writers, agents, owners or anybody else 
in sight. The people who have anything good to say about him are 

few. 

But nobody ever can say Hartack doesn't try. When he rides a race 
horse, he is going to do one thing. He is going to get down flat on 
his belly and slash whip streaks into the horse's side and try to get 
home first. Which is all anybody could want from a jockey. 

But even those few people who have a good relationship with him 
will tell you that he is no fun when he loses. He is unbearable, no 
matter who is around. Since jockeys lose more often than they win, 
meetings with Hartack are on a catch-it-right basis. Most people 
don't like him because of titiis. But if there is anybody in sports who 
can afford to act this way, it is Hartack. He comes honest. 

"Bill can walk on any part of a race track," Chick Lang, who used 



32 Jimmy Breslin 

to be his agent, said one day last summer, "and he doesn't have to 
duck anybody. He can look everybody in the eye. There is nobody, 
no place, who can come up with a story on him about larceny or 
betting or something like that. How many can you say that about?" 

Lang was extolling the rider while having a drink at a bar near 
Pimlico Race Track, where he now is employed. After six years of 
doing business with Hartack and taking down $50,000 a year for it, 
Lang found even the money couldn't soothe his nerves any more. 

"It became just one big squabble," Lang said. "Bill would be 
fighting with me, then with an owner or a newspaperman or a 
trainer and it just got to be too much for both of us. He acts un- 
happy all the time. He acts as if he hates everything about what he's 
doing. I don't know what it is." 

This drive, which makes Hartack a person who wants to win so 
badly he upsets you, comes from classic reasons. A boyhood in a 
Pennsylvania coal town during the depression does not make you 
easy going and philosophical about life. For a year and a half the 
family lived on the 50 cents a day credit at the company store which 
Bill's father earned by digging soft coal. For 50 cents a day, you lived 
on potatoes. 

On December 13, 1940, Hartack's mother, father and year-old sis- 
ter Maxine got into a battered car his father had borrowed so he 
could make the go-mile drive to the mine company office where he 
was to be paid. By this time, miners were being paid money instead 
of potatoes. On the way, a trailer truck slammed into the car, throw- 
ing it down a hill. Bill's father was in the hospital for 10 weeks. 
Maxine, the baby, had to stay for a year. Bill's mother died on 
Christmas morning. He and his sister Florence, who was 6 then, were 
taken care of by neighbors. It was not a good day for a kid. 

"I barely remember it," Hartack says. But you figure he carries it 
with him someplace, whether he knows it or not. 

A year later, the Hartack's shack caught fire and the four of them 
barely escaped the flames. They moved in with some other people 
while his father built a new house. 

With his father working the long hours of a miner, Hartack took 
over the job of raising his two sisters. He saw they were up in the 
morning and had breakfast and made school. At night he cooked 
dinner for the family. As for himself, school in Black Lick Township 
was rough; Bill was small and the other kids, big-necked sons of 
miners, beat hell out of him. 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 33 

So Hartack took it out on schoolbooks. He was valedictorian of 
his high school dass. 

When he graduated, at 18, Bill was thinking about an office job 
in Johnstown. Anything but the mines. When the office job didn't 
materialize, Hartack' s father spoke to Andy Bruno, a friend who was 
a jockeys' agent. Bruno agreed to get Bill a job with horses. Hartack 
gave his son a dollar and let him drive away with Bruno to the 
Charlestown, West Virginia, track. Hartack picked up horses 
quickly. After he rode that first winner, he never stopped. 

With this background, you'd think, it would be impossible for 
Hartack to miss. He had all the hunger and sorrow and hardness a 
kid ever would need to drive him to the top. It is the standard 
fonnula for successful athletes. But there have been fighters who 
have come out of the slums and they quit when you come into them 
and there are jockeys who had hunger and should be all out, but 
when it gets tough they shy away from the rail and take the easy 
way home. 

Hartack, when he first came to the track, brought more than 
hunger with him. You can find that out by talking to his father. Bill 
Hartack, Sr., is a slight man with close cropped brown hair which 
has only a little gray in it, a thin mustache and a slight European 
accent. He was asked if Bill's early years were what made him so 
tough when he loses. 

'Tart of it," his father said, "but not all. I see him today how he 
acts and I don't say anything because he's just the same as I was. 
When I worked it was piece work. You got paid for the amount of 
coal you loaded. I set a record for soft coal that lasted until they 
brought in machines. I worked from when the sun came up to when 
the sun came down. And even when I was getting only that 50 cents 
a day for food I worked like that. I'd come to work with only some 
water in my lunch pail, not even a piece of bread, but I couldn't let 
anybody dig more coal than me. Once, another fella dug more than 
me during a week. I was so mad that when I went home I couldn't 
sleep nights. I couldn't wait to get back and dig more coal than him. 
It had me crazy. You couldn't talk to me." 

"The boy is just like him," Bocchicchio said. "When he first came 
to stay with me here, I'm looking for him one day. It's a Sunday. He 
ain't been out of his room for dinner the night before and now 
breakfast and lunch has gone by and I don't see him. It's getting 
dark and I'm worried. I go over to his room and knock on the door 



34 Jimmy Breslin 

and he let me in. He was still in bed. He don't want to talk. So I 
leave him alone. But I get right on the phone with Bill here and I 
ask him what he wants me to do. He says, 'Did he have any winners 
yesterday?' I says no. So he laughs. 'Hell be all right in time for the 
track/ he tells me. That's what this kid is like. If he don't win, you 
can't talk to him." 

"When I was young," Mr. Hartack said, "I had a terrible temper. 
I fight. In the mines I argue with anybody. But you find when you 
get older, you mellow and you're not so mad any more. Bill will be 
like that. It will take a little while, but he'll mellow. But he'll still 
want to win. That he'll never get over." 

This win-or-shoot-yourself attitude of Hartack's comes out, dur- 
ing a race, in the form of a rail-brushing, whip-slamming kid who 
will take any chance on a horse to win. Regarded on form alone, 
Hartack seems to be a poor rider. The secret of being a jockey is to 
keep a good-looking seat on a horse. Hartack, on the other hand, 
does it all wrong. He rolls from side to side in such a pronounced 
manner that even an amateur from the stands can see it. 

"The form doesn't look classic," Jimmy Jones of Calumet tells 
you, "but it really doesn't matter none, because he has a way of 
making horses run for him. And that's what the business is." 

Horses ran for Hartack from the start. When Bill came to Charles^- 
town, Bruno, the agent friend of his father's, turned him over to 
trainer Junie Corbin, a veteran trainer on the small, half-mile track 
circuit. Hartack had no particular interest in becoming a jockey 
when he arrived, but under Gorbin he learned the business. 

On October 10, 1952, with just two races behind him, he held onto 
a horse named Nickleby for dear life and came home on top to pay 
$1840 at Waterford Park, West Virginia. Since then, he has never 
stopped. By 1954 he was one of the top jockeys on the half-mile 
circuit. A year later Corbin ran into trouble with his stable a groom 
had given caffein to a horse. When Corbin was suspended for this, 
his bankroll couldn't take the layover. So he sold Hartack's contract 
for $15,000 to the big Ada L. Rice Stable. Chick Lang was in the 
picture as agent now and at the first opportunity, a year and a half 
later, he and Hartack went free lance, meaning they could take 
whatever mounts were open. Calumet Farm asked for a first call on 
Hartack and got it because of the horseflesh they were putting 
under Bill's rear end each day. 

From then on he made it big. In 1957 his horses won a total of 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 35 

13,331,^57 in purses. This is a record for a jockey. He also won 43 
stakes, which topped a mark set by Eddie Arcaro. As a rider he is in 
a special little class with Arcaro and Willie Shoemaker. And in three 
of the last six years Hartack has been off by himself as national rid- 
ing champion. 

He has taken his father out of the mines and put him on a farm 
he bought at Charlestown, West Virginia. He has his younger sister 
in college. And life for him has become a series of new hi-fi sets, a 
different date whenever he picks up a phone, plenty of money and 
live horses. 

Hartack, like most people who don't have to live with women, is 
not against them. "There must be 150 girls around Miami I can call 
up for dates," he says. The situation is similar in Louisville or 
Oceanport, New Jersey, or wherever else he rides for a living. But 
it is strictly on a spur-of-the-moment basis. Riding horses and win- 
ning on them is basically his whole life. 

Money or acclaim never will change his attitude. A look at him in 
his own surroundings shows this. One warm Tuesday morning last 
February, for example, Hartack stepped out of his $50,000 brick- 
and-redwood ranch house in Miami Springs and walked across the 
lawn to a beige, spoke-wheeled Cadillac which was in the driveway. 
He keeps the car outside because the big garage has been turned 
into a closet to hold his 150 suits. 

It was 11:45 a - m - when Hartack pulled away from the house and 
started for Hialeah. The street was lined with palm trees and ex- 
pensive houses. Sprinklers played on the lawns and the sun glinted 
on the wet grass. Hartack was fresh-eyed. He had slept for 1 1 hours 
and when Paul Foley, a guy who stays with him, woke him up, Bill 
took a shower, swallowed orange juice and coffee and left for the 
job of riding horses. For the last five years he has been going to his 
business like this and making anywhere from $150,000 to $200,000 a 
year. For anybody who ever has had to go to work hours earlier each 
morning, packed into a train with nervous, bleak-faced commuters 
who spend most of their time at home two-stepping with bill col- 
lectors, Hartack's way of life is the kind of thing you would steal for. 

Hartack didn't talk as he drove to the track. He was thinking 
about the horses he would ride that day. At night, he reads the 
Racing Form and carefully goes over every horse in each race and as 
he does this he tries to remember their habits. One will swing wide 
on a turn, he will tell himself, so if he gets a chance he will stay 



6 Jimmy Breslin 

behind that one and then move inside him. on the turn. This reading 
and remembering is something a jockey must do or he isn't worth a 
quarter. Hartack, as he drove to the track, ran over the horses in 
his mind. He was mute as he pulled the car into the officials' lot at 
the track. His face was solemn as he walked through the gate and 
into the jockeys' room. Inside, he undressed, put on a white T-shirt 
and whipcord riding pants, then sat quietly while a valet tugged on 
his riding boots. The other jockeys paid no attention to him except 
for a nod here and there and Hartack returned it. Then he took out 
the program and the Racing Form and began to look at them again. 

"How do you feel," a guy asked him. 

"Terrible," he said. "My stomach bothers me. It always bothers 
me." He kept reading the paper. It was the best you ever will get in 
the way of conversation when Hartack is on a track. 

Outside, Chick Lang was standing on the gravel walk in front of 
the racing secretary's office. He was shaking his head. Lang is a 
heavy, round-faced, blond-haired guy of 32. He had been at the 
barns at 5:45 a.m. talking to trainers and owners and making deals 
with them for Hartack to ride their mounts. 

"I don't know whether life is worth all this," Lang was saying. 
"You saw how he was today? Concentrating, serious. Nobody allowed 
to talk. That's fine. It's the way he wants it and that's the way it 
should be. But what about other people? Don't you think he should 
give them something, too? Last week, on Wednesday, he went to the 
coast to ride Amerigo in the San Juan Capistrano Handicap. 

"Before he left we talked and decided that he wouldn't take any 
mounts here until Monday. That was yesterday. So I went out and 
booked him on seven horses. What happens? Sunday night he calls 
me from Las Vegas. 'I can't get a plane out of here/ he said. 

"Well, you've been to Vegas. They run planes out of there like 
they were streetcars. But that's what he tells me. Now I've got to get 
on the phone and start trying to find trainers and tell them Hartack 
can't ride the next day. It embarrasses hell out of me. Here I make 
commitments and then I have to break them. It's terrible." 

Trouble is something Hartack will take or he will make and he 
doesn't care about it. And while carrying around this winning-is-all- 
that-matters attitude he has had plenty of jams. 

The business of newspapermen, for example. Hartack has one of 
the worst relationships any athlete ever has had with newspapers and 
he is not about to improve it. 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 37 

Now many people do not like sportswriters, particularly the wives 
of sportswriters, and in many athletic circles it is considered a com- 
mon, decent hatred for a person to have. But most sportswriters 
whom Hartack dislikes couldn't care less. And, the notion is, neither 
does the reading public. Ofttimes, the public is having enough 
trouble deciphering what sportswriters write without having to take 
on the additional burden of remembering that there is a feud be- 
tween Hartack and the press box. But it is important to Hartack 
that he does not like the writers. And they put in the papers that his 
name is "Willie" and he blows up at them. 

Hartack has troubles with officials, too, and these cost him. Sus- 
pensions dot his career. Last year, for example, he snarled at Garden 
State stewards they insisted he cursed and was set down for the 
remainder of the meeting. In 1958 he was set down for 15 days by 
Atlantic City stewards when he was first under the wire on a horse 
called Nitrophy. But Jimmy Johnson, who finished second on Tote 
All, lodged a foul claim against Hartack, saying his horse had been 
interfered with. The stewards allowed the claim and took down 
Hartack's horse. Hartack tried to take down Johnson with a left hand 
in the jocks' room. For his troubles both on the track and off it, Bill 
was given 15 days. In the last two years, Bill has been set down a 
total of 61 days. And he has been fined and reprimanded several 
times. At Hialeah in February he lost a photo with a horse called 
Cozy Ada and after it he was in a rage. "What do I have to do to get 
a shake here?" he snapped, walking out on the rest of his riding 
commitments. He was fined $100 for this. This is a kid who simply 
cannot stand losing, even to a camera. 

His temperament does not make him a hero with other jockeys. 
There was a night last summer in the bar of the International Hotel, 
which is at New York's Idlewild Airport, and Willie Shoemaker and 
Sammy Boulmetis and some other horse guys were sitting around 
over a drink and Hartack's name was mentioned. 

"I can't figure him out," Boulmetis was saying. "One day he seems 
nice to you. Next day he won't even talk to you." 

Walter Blum, another rider, had an opinion, too. "You know," 
he said, "you can't live with him. He just wants to make you hate 
him. I mean, he really works at it." 

Through all this, Hartack's outlook has been the same. "I do my 
job," he says. "I do what I think best. If I make a mistake, that's 
that. But the only place a mistake shows is the official chart of a 



38 Jimmy Breslin 

race. If I don't win, that's a mistake. Nothing else counts. Not you 
or anybody else. Only that result." 

To get down and wrestle with the truth, Hartack's attitude is, on 
many occasions, the only right one in racing. 

Take, for example, the warm afternoon in February of 1959 at 
Hialeah when Hartack started jogging a horse called Greek Circle 
to the starting gate. To Hartack, the parade to the post is all im- 
portant. He gets the feel of his mount by tugging on one rein, then 
the other and watching the horse's reaction. He tries to find out if 
the horse is favoring one foot or another or likes to be held tightly 
or with a normal pressure on the bit. Greek Circle responded to 
nothing. The horse seemed to have no coordination at all and that 
was enough for Hartack. 

"My horse isn't right," he yelled to the starter. "He can't coordi- 
nate himself. He's almost falling down right now. I'm getting off 
him/' 

The starter called for a veterinarian and Hartack jogged die 
horse for the vet, Dr. George Barksdale. 

"The horse is fine," Dr. Barksdale said. "Take him into the gate. 
Hell run fine/' 

Hartack's answer was simple. He stopped the horse and swung his 
fanny off him and dropped to the ground. The veterinarian shrugged. 
Across the way, in the stands, they were adding up figures and a 
neat little sum of 15,443.56 had been set aside as the track's share of 
the $136,089 bet on Greek Circle. Because the next race, the Widener, 
was on television and time was a problem now, the track stewards 
had to order the horse scratched and the money bet on him returned. 

They knocked Hartack's brains out on this one. He was in head- 
lines across the nation the next day as a little grandstander who 
should have been suspended for his actions. 

But when the smoke cleared and you could think about it objec- 
tively, you could see who was wrong. Eddie Arcaro, over many 
glasses of a thing called Blue Sunoco in the Miami Airport bar a 
week later, talked about it. "Nobody in his right mind, the vet in- 
cluded, could knock Hartack for that. Do you know how many jocks 
have been killed because they were on broken down horses? And 
they tell me this horse has been sore all year. Bad sore, too. Hartack 
was right. It took a little guts, too." 

Then on May 16, 1959, Hartack was aboard Vegeo at Garden 
State and as he got into the gate, the horse was nervous and reared 



Racing's Angriest Young Man 39 

up and Bill yelled to Cecil Phillips, the starter, that he wasn't ready 
to go. Phillips' answer was to press the sticks of wood in his hand 
together and they completed the electric circuit which made the 
gate open and the race start. Hartack's horse was rearing in the air 
and by the time he got him straightened out the field was up the 
track and the race was lost. 

Hartack went to the track stewards with this complaint. Now 
Hartack coming off a loser is bad enough. But a Hartack coming off 
a loser that he felt is somebody else's fault is really something. This 
is a Khrushchev who rides horses. He called the stewards and 
snapped at them. Their version was that he cursed. They set him 
down for the remainder of the meeting. 

"I get in trouble because of these things," Hartack tells you. "But 
I'm never going to stop because I'm right. I'm doing it honestly. 
The only reason I get my name around is that I'm the only one who 
does it. When I have a horse under me that's broken down, I won't 
ride him. And if the starter blows my chances in a race, I yell about 
it. It doesn't just happen to me. It happens to everybody else. But 
the rest of these riders are afraid to say anything about it. They get 
on a horse that's broken down and they keep quiet. Then they give 
him an easy ride, so they won't take any chances of getting hurt, and 
when they come back they give some ridiculous excuse to satisfy the 
trainer. You know, 'The horse lugged in' or 'he propped on me' or 
'he tried to get out on me/ In the meantime, the public has bet its 
money on the horse and they didn't get a fair shake. But the jocks 
feel you don't have to make an excuse to them. They don't count. 
Well, I look on it differently. I owe loyalty to anybody who bets on 
my horse. The person who does that is going to get the best I can 
give him. Nothing is going to stop me from doing that." 

If you have been around Hartack on race tracks, and watched him 
as he tries to win, you would know how far he is willing to carry his 
fight. Like the dark, rain-flecked Saturday in Louisville in 1958. 

The driver moved his ambulance slowly through the filth of 
Churchill Downs' grandstand betting area and he had his hand on 
the horn to make people get out of the way as he headed for the 
gate. 

Hartack was on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance. He had 
a wooden ice cream spoon stuck between his teeth so when the pain 
hit him he could bite into it. The stick doesn't help take pain away, 
but you do not bite your lip when pain comes if you have a stick 



40 Jimmy Breslin 

between your teeth, so Hartack could grimace and tighten his teeth 
on the wood each time the ambulance hit a bump. 

His body was covered with mud and his left leg was propped on a 
pillow. He looked tiny and helpless, the way jockeys always do when 
they are hurt. A few minutes before, a s-year-old filly named Quail 
Egg had become frightened in the starting gate and she flipped Har- 
tack. As he rolled around in the mud under the horse, Quail Egg 
started to thrash at the ground with her hooves. Then the horse fell 
heavily on Hartack and a bone in his leg snapped. 

As the ambulance moved into a main street, where it was smoother 
riding, Hartack put the stick to the side of his mouth and muttered 
some words to Chick Lang. 

"Nothing heavy on this leg," he said. "Don't let them put a heavy 
cast on this leg, Chick. We got to ride that horse next week." 

The Kentucky Derby was to be run on the next Saturday and 
Hartack was contracted to ride Tim Tarn. Now he was flattened out 
on a stretcher in an ambulance and his leg was broken, but he still 
was talking about riding the horse. 

Then he called a company in Chicago which makes special braces. 
"I want a real light one. Aluminum," he told them. "Make it spe- 
cial. It has to go inside a riding boot. I need it by Wednesday." 

"He won't listen to me," the staff doctor from the hospital in 
Louisville said quietly. "The fibula is snapped and there are some 
ripped ligaments around it. That leg will need a long time." 

It did. Hartack was out for six weeks. But if you had seen him 
with a stick in his mouth and pain waving through his body and 
heard him talking about trying to ride a horse, then you had to say 
that he is a kid with something to him. 

Every time Hartack has been hurt he has been like this. On July 
10, 1957, he was moving around the last turn at Arlington Park on a 
horse called Smoke-Me-Now. The one in front, Spy Boss, had been 
running steadily, but he became tired and started to fall apart all at 
once and Smoke-Me-Now ran up his heels. With a thoroughbred 
horse in full motion, it only takes the slightest flick against his ankles 
to cause a spill. This time Smoke-Me-Now caught it good and he 
went down in a crash. Hartack was tossed into the air. His little 
body flipped in a somersault and he landed on his back. Nobody 
would pick him up until an ambulance came. 

They took him to a hospital in Elgin, Illinois, and the doctors 
said Hartack had a badly sprained back and muscles were torn and 



Racings Angriest Young Man 41 

he'd be out for a couple of weeks at a minimum. This was on a 
Thursday. On Saturday, Hartack was scheduled to ride Iron Liege, 
for the Calumet Farm, in the $100,000 Arlington Classic. Hartack 
likes $100,000 races. 

At 8 o'clock on Friday night, Dogwagon, who is an exercise boy 
for Calumet, was sitting in a camp chair in front of the barn at 
Arlington Park and a guy came over and asked who was riding a 
stable pony around the area at this time of night. 

''That is Mr. Bill Hartack/' Dogwagon said. "Mr. Bill Hartack 
has a fine feeling for money and right now he is teaching his back to 
feel the same ways. He strapped up like he was a fat ole woman try- 
ing to keep the rolls in. But he goin' be ridin' Iron Liege tomorrow 
and he'll be therebouts when they pass out the money, too." 

Hartack was jogging back and forth across the stable area on a 
painted pony. He came back to the barn, after 45 minutes of this. 
He hopped oil and went to a phone to tell Calumet's Jimmy Jones 
that he could ride the next day. He was beat a nose on Iron Liege 
and he went into a rage because he lost the race. 

In the tack room, somebody passed by and said, "You did a won- 
derful job getting second. I mean, you're lucky you can walk, much 
less ride." 

"I don't care if I have one leg," Hartack snapped. "That's no ex- 
cuse. I wanted to win the race." 

Which is the whole game with Hartack. There isn't a thing in the 
world you can say is wrong with him except he cannot stand to lose. 
And he does not think anything else in the world matters except not 
losing. 

Last June, for example, Hartack was at Monmouth Park and was 
due in New York to see Floyd Patterson fight Ingemar Johansson. 
Scratch Sheet Pestano, his agent, was at the bar in Jack Dernpsey's 
Restaurant on Broadway, Hartack's ringside seats in his pocket. 

"You meeting Hartack?" somebody asked him. 

"When I get the race results, 111 let you know," Pestano said. 

He went into a phone booth and called a newspaper office for the 
day's results at Monmouth. Hartack was on seven horses. As Pestano 
listened to the guy on the other end, his face became longer. He 
came out of the phone booth with, the tickets in his hand. 

"You meet him and give them to him," he told somebody with 
him. "He lost on seven horses today. Every one of them should have 
been up there. He won't be fit to live with tonight. I'm going home. 



42 Jimmy Breslin 

I don't want to be anywhere near him. He just can't stand losing," 
Mr. Harry (Champ) Segal, dean of Broadway horse players, was 

listening to the conversation. 
"If all them jockeys was like that maybe you could cash a bet now 

and then," the Champ said. 
Which is what everybody has to say about Hartack, whether they 

care for him or not. 



THE WORLD 



IT'S A BRAND NEW SERIES 
(World Series Game II) 

by Bob Hunter 

From The Los Angeles Examiner 
Copyright, , 1960, The Los Angeles Examiner 



Casey Stengel's violent Yankees, erupting and boiling over like a 
Mt. Vesuvius, here on Black Thursday matched the giant first-game 
stride of the Pirates to send the 57th classic to New York as a brand 
new World Series. 

The heavy armored Yankees, in squaring the big money playoffs 
before 37,308 stunned and silent fans, scattered destruction and 
records all over Forbes Field as they squelched the National League 
entry in its own back yard, 16 to 3. 

While Bullet Bob Turley subdued the eager, confident Pirates, 
Mickey Mantle hit two powerhouse homers and batted in five runs. 

And once again the proud wrecking crew from the Bronx became 
favorites to take it all when the second phase of activity resumes 
Saturday in New York. 

Stengel will have Whitey Ford, his best blue ribbon pitcher, for 
this immediate task, working the pivotal game as the combatants 
take up the battle after a one day travel break. 

It will be all left handed in the third game, with Wilmer (Vine- 
gar Bend) Mizell, a mid-season steal from the Cardinals, trying to 
recapture the tournament lead for Pittsburgh. 

Because of Ford, Yankee Stadium and a flurry of minor injuries, 
the Bronx Bombers will be substantially favored over the bedeviled 
Pirates, not only in contest No. 3, but for the whole ball of wax. 

Just to keep in the groove of their 19 hit picnic Thursday, Stengel 
will work his American League champions this morning in New 
York. 

And the Pirates, who can sorely use the day to reassemble their 



44 Bob Hunter 

poise and health, regroup at the stadium in the afternoon for their 
therapeutics. 

Bob Skinner, who missed this slaughterhouse second game with a 
jammed thumb suffered on an opening day slide, went to Presby- 
terian Hospital, then accompanied the National Leaguers big town. 

He wouldn't play against the left handed Ford, anyway, and this 
will give him two days to recover. 

Dick Stuart, Dick Groat, Vern Law and Don Hoak also can use 
the coffee break for physical freshness. 

Manager Danny Murtaugh announced an all right-handed order, 
with the exception of Billy Virdon, against Ford, who has been 
pitching and winning the big ones for more than a decade. 

Stengel Thursday had Yogi Berra, who hadn't been in the outfield 
in a World Series since 1947, in left. 

He had Elston Howard, who never before had caught in a Series, 
behind the plate, even though in Berra he owned the No. i veteran 
of post-seasoned receiving. 

But it all worked to Yankee perfection after their muddled and 
messy beginning Wednesday. 

They did it with their copyright power, too, as they boosted their 
home run output for the first phase of this series to four. 

Both of Mantle's shots were hit right handed and were so remote 
that I'll bet even the space-probing snout of the television cameras 
lost them for you. 

He hit his first one 400 feet off southpaw Fred Green, and his 
second 436 feet off another lefthander, Joe Gibbon. 

Both went to opposite fields, the one in the fifth scoring Roger 
Maris, and the bazooka shot in the seventh driving in Tony Kubek 
and Joe DeMaestri. 

They were his isth and igth in World Series play, putting him 
ahead of Duke Snider's mark, just back of the fabled Babe Ruth. 

His last shot, perhaps you noted, screamed over the right center- 
field ivy-cloaked barrier squarely at the 4g6-foot marker, and still 
was going. 

It was the first time any right handed batter had been able to do it. 

Dale Long, Stan Musial and Snider, all southpaw swingers, have 
managed this satellite shot, but never any man from the other side 
of the plate. 

Mantle's five runs-batted-in on these two county-to-county blows 
brought on another re-editing of the record sheets. 



It's a Brand New Series 45 

Mickey then became the fourth man in World Series play to bat 
in that many runs in one game, his peerless predecessors being Tony 
Lazzeri and Bill Dickey, and tremendous Ted Kluszewski, who per* 
formed it against the Dodgers a year ago. 

A dozen Yankees batted, and seven of them scored in the robust 
sixth inning, which was the back breaker for the Pirates, who had 
intended fully to make it two straight here and go into cavernous 
Yankee Stadium in commanding position. 

These seven scores tied a World Series single inning scoring 
record, already held by the Bombers, and the i6-run total was within 
two of yet another mark. 

The 32 base knocks topped the old two team aggregate of 29 that 
the Cards and Red Sox piled up in 1946. 

In smashing the Pirates like few teams have been smashed, the 
Yankees went to bat against six pitchers, starting with Bob Friend. 

Not one escaped the vicious-erupting Bronx bats, with every 
Yankee starter getting at least one hit in the carnage that turned 
this into the most muted series game within recall. 

It's quite likely you walked up and slapped your television set, 
figuring the danged sound had gone off. 

Rain was the only thing that could have stopped the Yankees, 
and it almost did, coming down in gentle coverlets until almost 
butchering time. 

Friend, the No. 2 big man on the Pirate staff, gave two runs in the 
third and another in the fourth, after which he was lifted for a 
hitter. 

Even though you won't believe it, unless you were watching care- 
fully, the losers could have been winners in this fourth round. 

It was the turning point, the big switch in this subsequently one- 
sided struggle. 

Turley was almost out of there, and Friend well could have come 
on to make it two in a row for the Pirates. 

Trailing 3-0 on a double down the third base line by Gil Mc- 
Dougald that the losers claimed was foul, the home team came up 
for its fourth at bat. 

Three straight hits by Gino Cimoli, Smokey Burgess and Don 
Hoak put one run across and the tieing markers at second and third, 
all with none out. 

There was a beehive of activity in the bullpen, and Stengel said 
later he almost went out and got Turley right there. 



46 Bob Hunter 

But he left Bob, whose nickname of Bullet now is somewhat of 
a misnomer, pitch to Bill Mazeroski, the game wrecker of Wed- 
nesday. 

Mazeroski almost became a game wrecker Thursday. 

After a couple of fast balls, you saw, if you were studying the 
strategy intently, Turley served up a change of pace. 

You saw him serve it badly, getting it right over the plate where 
Maz drew a bead and hit a rifle shot chest high, but right at Mc- 
Dougald, who was staggered by the impact in his glove. 

Mazeroski flung down his bat in disgust as he went to the dugout. 

Instead of the tying runs coming home, there was one out and 
Murtaugh answered the situation by calling Gene Baker to bat for 
Friend. 

Had Mazeroskf s ball gone through, instead of Turley escaping 
with his life on a poor pitch, Friend would have had whatever 
relief pitcher Stengel summoned. 

But Turley got Baker on an infield pop and Billy Virdon on 
a ground out, and went from there to victory. 

Finally, in the ninth inning, with one out and the Yankees grip- 
ping a i3-run bulge, the ever-cautious Casey brought in Bobby 
Shantz, who made Don Hoak ground into a game-ending double 
play. 

Green gave four runs as the proud and destructive Yankees con- 
tinued to blast away in the fifth. 

Then Green, along with Clem Labine and George Witt, were 
pummeled and mauled for seven more in the record-equaling sixth 
inning. 

Gibbon allowed three in the seventh on Mantle's homer that 
must have sent you Yankee fans to the ice box for a foamy one, even 
that early in the day. 

Tom Cheney wild pitched the i6th run across in the ninth, 
which I am reporting only because I doubt you still were watching. 

For the people here, the game ended midway in that long and 
tedious sixth session, and most of them left without knowing Turley 
and Shantz struck out not one Pirate. 

On the other hand the Pittsburgh Pirates, hit, harassed and hurt 
all day, struck out 11 Yankees. 

And the losers had 13 runners stranded, too. You figure it. 

It was a weird day and a weird game, and even though your 
television showed only black and white, it was a technicolor game. 



IT'S ALL SQUARE AGAIN 
(World Series Game IV) 

By Curley Grieve 

From The San Francisco Examiner 
Copyright, , 1960, San Francisco Examiner 



The Pirates came fluttering back on the wings of a prayer today 
as Vern Law, the Mormon elder from Idaho, and Elroy Face, his 
chief assistant, arrested the Yankee dynamiters, 3-2, in a chiller- 
diller. 

With great clutch plays by Bill Virdon and Don Hoak, the almost 
extinguished Bucs fought back from the other side of nowhere 
to square the World Series at two games each and assure its return 
to Pittsburgh and Forbes Field. 

If the National League champions can erase from their memory 
the brutal hazing they got from the Bronx Bombers in the second 
and third games, they will be starting all even with the chance to 
win it as sound as ever. 

Harvey Haddix, the little left-hander, will try to raise the skull 
and crossbone insignia of the Buccaneers, here tomorrow. 

He will oppose either Bill Stafford, who joined the Yanks in mid- 
season and still is unseasoned, or the veteran Art Ditmar, who will 
be coming back after a shellacking in the first game. 

This was a real lulu of a game today as tight as the skin on the 
baseball that took a different jump shortly after the start of the 
skirmishing. 

Instead of the Yanks and pitcher Ralph Terry getting all the 
breaks, they didn't. And, if the truth must be told, manager Danny 
Murtaugh might have "outthunk" Casey Stengel, the ol' perfessor, 
in a couple of spots. 

But when the game is cut and dried, and hung up for closer 
scrutiny, it will be found that Virdon's incredible wall-bouncing 
catch with two on in the seventh was the difference. 

Sure, if you want more heroes, you can have them in Law and 
Face, and Hoak for his rally-discouraging defensive maneuver in 
the ninth. 

47 



4& Curley Grieve 

But even at that it took an almost fantastically perfect effort for 
an eke-out victory that held the crowd of 67,812 enthralled until 
the final out. 

The refusal of the Pirates to buckle, the long bounce back from 
two days of horror, the way Law and then Face plugged relentlessly 
from the mound won the heart of the huge gallery. 

The Pittsburghers were given an ovation as they trotted from 
the field after the syth out. 

The Bucs will tell you that they showed today why they won the 
pennant. They will claim that this is their "typical" game low in 
runs but fine in quality. 

And if Manager Murtaugh wants to call it a delayed birthday 
present he's entitled to do so. 

But Danny, like everyone else, must have sat on pins and needles 
throughout most of the action and especially the first frame. 

For Bob Cerv belted Law's first pitch for a single and Tony 
Kubek blasted his third for a double. 

"Here we go againl" shouted the Bronx rooters at their favorite 
sons. 

But the bounce that didn't come yesterday did today. After 
Roger Maris flied out to right field and Mickey Mantle was pur- 
posely walked to fill the bases, Yogi Berra sliced a dribbler down 
third. 

It rolled right into Hoak's mitt and all he had to do was touch 
third and throw to first and the Pirates were off the hook on which 
they were hanged yesterday when almost the same kind of dribbler 
set the stage for Bobby Richardson's grand slam. 

From that point on the Buc cause took on a warm glow. 

Law mowed down the big Yankee guns except for Moose Skow- 
ron's homer in the fourth, which went to the off right field be- 
cause it was outside, only not far enough. 

The tipoff on what might happen occurred earlier in this same 
frame. Mickey Mantle, with three home runs so far in the series, 
tried to bunt and missed on a third strike which is some sort of 
confession for the league's power champion. 

The Pirates, held hitless for four innings, broke the barrier in 
the fifth and got all the runs they needed. 

Terry, 6-3 and 187 pounds, had right-armed his way through 
12 straight opponents until San Francisco's Gino Cimoli singled 
to open the fifth. 



It's All Square Again 49 

Then came one of the key plays of the game. Smokey Burgess 
grounded to first and Skowron was victimized by his own judg- 
ment. He tried for the head man. He went to second for a force-out 
on Cimoli. But Gino not only beat the throw, he tore into Kubek so 
he had to eat the ball. Thus both hands were safe. 

Hoak's job was to bunt. But, a free-thinker like all the Pirates, 
he also wanted to get on base. So his bunt was a hard one, aimed 
to clear the head of Skowron or Richardson. 

The ball settled in Richardson's glove and, because it was distant 
relative to an attempted sacrifice, the umpires didn't call the infield 
fly rule. 

Bill Mazeroski flied up to first for the second out and that left 
manager Murtaugh with an important decision which he had 
muffed previously. 

Should he pull Law for a pinch-hitter and turn over the game 
to warmed-up Bob Friend? He had yanked Friend for a pinch- 
hitter early in the second game. Maybe he was haunted by the 
debacle it had wrought. In any event Law, a powerfully built 
specimen at 6-3 and 195 pounds, got a chance to bat for himself. 

He responded on the first Terry pitch. He sent a screaming 
double to the left that scored Cimoli and put two men in position 
for Virdon. The lefthander with the specs dropped a hit in front 
of Mantle and the Bucs had two more across. 

Law and Face made the three stand up. But the Yankee seventh 
was frightening. 

Law probably tired after a great stretch of pitching extending 
from Skowron's homer until Bill came up to bat again. The 20 
game winner fanned the side in the fifth and erased it in order in 
the sixth. Then the aptly named Moose drove the opening wedge 
of a last bid with a double to open the seventh. 

Gil McDougald singled to the same corner but Skowron respected 
Roberto Clemente's arm, and it was a good thing he did. Clemente 
was right on the target at home with a powerful throw. 

Law still might have got out of trouble except for another mis- 
calculation on a double play ball. Richardson hit the hopper close 
to second. Mazeroski scooped it up but, instead of tossing to Dick 
Groat, he tried to make the touch at second himself. 

He 'couldn't do it fast enough, so one run was over to make 
the score 3-2. One runner was left at first to pester the Bucs. Pinch- 
hitter John Blanchard followed with a single to right and Richard- 



50 Curley Grieve 

son, too, respected Clemente's arm and remained at second. This 
again was a key play and in view of developments saved a run. 

It was obvious that Murtaugh had to make a switch now and he 
called for Face, just as he had done in the first game. 

With the count 1-1, Bob Cerv sent the ball zinging toward the 
bleacher seats in left center. 

Virdon tore after it. Few thought he would ever reach it. 

But the chunky Billy, considered by his manager as fine a fielder 
as Willie Mays, leaped high by the 407 foot mark, caught the 
ball and fell to the runway but regained his feet quickly and then 
cut loose with a throw to the infield. Richardson had tagged up and 
gone to third. But there he succumbed as Kubek rolled to second 
for the final out. 

Virdon's catch was one of the great feats of series history and 
it saved two runs. If the Bucs do fight back and win the blue 
ribbon, it will be remembered as the tide-turning and golden payoff. 

Mantle made a great catch to rob Hoak of a triple in the top of 
the ninth and then Hoak added the sparkler in the bottom half 
of the same frame. 

Skowron was leading off and, with one homer and a double, it 
looked as if he had the hot bat. 

His first thrust on the second pitch had the stamp of another 
rightfielder homer as it left the bat. But it started to curve and shot 
just outside the boundary marker as it rammed against the seats. 

Then he smashed the ball down third and it traveled like a 
cannonball. But Hoak, with a lightning backhand movement, made 
the one-handed stop and got Moose at first. 

McDougald flied out to third then Stengel gave Dale Long, 
who had been released by the Giants, a chance to save the day. 
Dale worked the count to 3 and 2, and then uppercut a pitch to 
right that Clemente raced in to catch and end the game. 

Some may say that Casey made the wrong moves today. Did he 
leave Terry out there too long in the fifth when he had a batch of 
pitchers who haven't even shown? And in the last of the fifth, after 
Richardson had singled, he permitted Terry to bat. The pitcher 
fouled himself out trying to bunt on the third strike. 

In the seventh, with runners on first and second and Virdon up 
again, Stengel made the right move bringing in Bobby Shantz, a 
lefty, to pitch to a lefty. Virdon missed a third strike by a foot. But 
it was too late then to make amends. 



MAZEROSKI FINISHES IT 

(World Series Game VII) 

By Bill Bryson 

From The Des Moines Register and Tribune 
Copyright, , 1960, Des Moines Register and Tribune 



The most hallowed piece of property in Pittsburgh baseball 
history left Forbes Field late Thursday afternoon under a dirty 
gray sports jacket and with police escort. 

That, of course, was home plate, where Bill Mazeroski completed 
his electrifying home run while Umpire Bill Jackowski, broad back 
braced and arms spread, held off the mob long enough for Bill to 
make it legal. 

One of 36,683 maniacs stole the plate and a cop hauled him off. 

Pittsburgh's steel mills couldn't have made more noise than the 
crowd in this ancient park did when Mazeroski smashed Yankee 
Ralph Terry's second pitch of the ninth inning. 

Hysterical patriots were leaping out of the box seats and onto 
the field even before Bill's drive rocketed over the head of left 
fielder Yogi Berra. 

By the time it sailed over the ivy-covered brick wall, the rush 
from the stands had begun and these sudden madmen threatened to 
keep Maz from touching the plate with the run that beat the lordly 
Yankees, 10-9, for the title. 

Two hours after this seventh World Series game, dozens of fans 
were walking in a happy daze around the scene of Pittsburgh's 
first world title victory since 1925. 

This was the arena where, through a sunny afternoon, joy and 
despair alternated at tearing the emotions of the witnesses. 

Joy came early with a 4-0 lead against the tyrants who had so 
long dominated baseball's autumn classic. Rocky Nelson's two-run 
homer set the foundation in the first inning. 

The first sinister touch was Bill Skowron's lonely homer for the 
Yankees in the fifth. 

But there was no real despair yet. After all, it was only the third 
New York hit off precision-throwing Vern Law, and the Mormon 
preacher promptly disposed of the next three Yanks. 



52 Bill Bryson 

But distress bordering on terror struck in the sixth inning. The 
Yankees, so accustomed to winning under pressure, not only chased 
the tiring Law, but fell upon Roy Face, the emergency expert. 

Face had saved all three previous Pirate victories with his fork- 
ball. 

Mickey Mantle smacked Face for a run-scoring single. Yogi Berra 
crashed a three-run homer, jumping up and down on the first-base 
line as he watched his towering fly soar just inside the foul pole and 
into the stands. 

Now, the Yankees, i8-time world champions, were in front, 5-4, 
and Pirate fans shuddered at the thought that this might turn 
into another rout. 

They had sat through two fearful drubbings in Forbes Field, 
16-3 and 12-0. The other Yankee victory, in New York, was almost 
as humiliating 10-0. 

It was no rout, but it looked like security for the Yanks when 
a walk, two singles and Clete Boyer's double boosted the Yankee 
margin to 7-4 in the eighth. 

By this time, stubborn little Bobby Shantz had kept the Pirates 
helpless for five innings. 

Despair was almost as apparent as the haze that hung over the 
nearby hills. Pirate fans must have wished for the type of Yankee 
power that had blasted 10 homers in this Series. The Bucs had 
just two. 

The Pirates had got rid of the gutty Shantz when pinch-hitter 
Gino Ciinoli, Bill Virdon and Dick Groat clipped him for singles 
and a run with nobody out. 

Virdon's smash, which might have been turned into a double 
play, hit shortstop Tony Kubek in the throat. Kubek had to leave 
the game and was taken to a hospital. 

In came lanky Jim Coates. There were mutterings when Manager 
Danny Murtaugh wasted Bob Skinner's power potential by having 
him bunt the runners along, 

Luck joined the Pirates after Rocky Nelson's fly. Roberto Cle- 
mente topped a roller to the right of Coates. 

First baseman Bill Skowron had to field the maddening trickier. 
By the time he scooped it up, there was no chance for a play. A 
run scored. 

Once again, though, Murtaugh was open to criticism. When the 
Bucs were behind by only 5-4, Danny had substituted skillful Hal 



Mazeroski Finishes It 53 

Smith as his catcher in place of Smokey Burgess, a left-handed power 
hitter just the man for this vital spot against the right-handed 
Coates. Smith swings right. 

And Smith, the ex-Yankee, swung right, indeed but only after 
looking about as bad as possible on his second strike, Hal missed a 
high fast ball by almost a foot. 

The count was two balls, two strikes when the drive sailed over 
the wall. Bedlam broke loose and the Pirates led, 9-7. 

The fans who had come to bury the Yankees stayed to praise them 
grudgingly, despairingly for a comeback of their own. 

Bob Friend was entrusted with the fresh lead, but was no more 
reliable than he had been in two losing starts. 

Little Bobby Richardson and pinch-hitter Dale Long each singled. 

Reed-thin Harvey Haddix, who beat the Yankees in the fourth 
game, was beckoned to face the Yanks' Gargantuans Roger Maris 
and Mickey Mantle. 

Harvey got past Maris, who popped an easy foul to Smith, but 
Mantle singled for another run. 

Then it was Mickey's artful dodging that let the tying run score. 

Nelson was playing tight to the line to keep Mantle close to first 
base. His position was ideal for Berra's bouncer. 

Rocky seized the ball, touched the bag and turned to stab^ at 
Mantle. If he had tagged Mickey, it would have been a game-ending 
double play, completed before pinch-runner Gil McDougald could 
cross the plate. 

But Mickey slid under the tag and the Yankees had a new op- 
portunity. Skowron was a dangerous threat to bring Mantle around. 

Haddix was his master, though. Bill bounced to Groat at short 
and there was an easy force on Mantle. 

So Ralph Terry, who had retired Don Hoak to end the eighth, 
went out to defend the tie. 

Instead, he became the twenty-sixth victim of a late-inning Pirate 
rally in Pittsburgh's most glorious baseball year since the Pirates 
won the world championship in 1925. 



HIS LAST BOW? 

By Red Smith 

From The New York Herald Tribune 
Copyright, , 1960, New York Herald Tribune Inc. 



When Hal Smith hit the ball Jim Coates turned to watch its 
flight over leftfield, and as it vanished beyond the ivied wall of 
brick the pitcher flung his glove high, as though renouncing for- 
ever the loathesome tools of his trade. Before the runners had circled 
the bases, G. D. Stengel was out of the dugout, his knee-spring gait 
taking him rapidly toward the forlorn young man on the mound. 

Five times earlier this sultry, sunny, hazy, implausible day, the 
greatest man in baseball had shaped up front and center, asking 
questions, making decisions, issuing orders, while the Yankees and 
Pirates threshed and clawed through the sudden-death seventh 
struggle for the championship of their species. 

Now Casey spoke briefly to Coates, who turned and shuffled to 
the dugout on dragging feet, his head low. The manager waited 
until Ralph Terry arrived from the bull pen, then walked warily 
back to his seat. 

It may have been his last exit from the stage he has occupied 
through most of his 70 years. Maybe it wasn't, and next year they 
may have to write pieces captioned, "the return of Casey Stengel." 
But if this was his final bow, then it was made in circumstances 
more gaudily theatrical than the wildest mummery this old trouper 
could have dreamed up for himself. 

Perhaps there have been other World Series games as extrava- 
gantly melodramatic as this, which the Yankees seemed to have 
won with a come-from-behind rush in the middle innings; which 
flipped over to dizzy abruptness when Smith's home run with two 
on base topped off a five-run burst for Pittsburgh in the eighth; 
which slipped out of Pirate paws when the Yankees tied the score 
with two runs in the ninth, then blew up with the shattering crash 
of Bill Mazeroski's bat against Terry's last pitch. 

The home run went where Smith's had gone, giving Pittsburgh 
the game, 10 to 9, and the set, 4 to 3. Terry watched the ball dis- 

54 



His Last Bow? 55 

appear, brandished his glove hand high overhead, shook himself 
like a wet spaniel, and started fighting through the mobs that came 
boiling from the stands to use Mazeroski like a trampoline. ^ 

Maybe there've been other finishes like this, but this is Pitts- 
burgh's first world championship in 35 years. As this is written, the 
pitching mound heaves and squirms with kids whose parents may 
not have been bora when the Pirates last won a pennant. From 
somewhere under the stands comes burst after burst of cheering for 
every blessed little Buccaneer down to Joe Christopher, a pinch- 
runner from the Virgin Islands. Over and over, screeching trebles 
sing a tinny horror entitled, "The Bucs Are Going All the Way/ 1 
On the field a meaty introvert in a brown suit poses for snapshots 
with a spade over one shoulder and, on the other, the Forbes Field 
home plate which he dug up as cops looked on, 

In his own good time, Casey Stengel will reveal whether he means 
to manage again or retire with his matchless record of 10 Ameri- 
can League pennants in 12 New York seasons. His Yankee teams 
won seven world championships, and it was obvious from the out- 
set that he wanted this eighth title so much he could taste it. 

He sent his non-alcoholic, denicotinized, clean-living, right-think- 
ing, brave, pure and reverent right-hander, Bob Turley, out to pitch 
against the equally unblemished Latter Day Saint, Vernon Law, but 
the lofty moral tone of the duel didn't stay his hand. When Rocky 
Nelson hit a tworun homer in the first inning and Smokey Burgess 
led off the second with a single, out came Turley like a loose tooth, 
and when Pittsburgh added a third and fourth run off Bill Stafford, 
that young man vanished also. 

For five innings, Bobby Shantz stopped the Pirates cold with one 
single while the Yankees got hunk with Law and the accomplice 
who had helped him win two games, Roy Face. Bill Skowron got 
a home run against Law and a six-inning rumpus brought in Face, 
in time for a three-run shot that Yogi Bern smashed high and far 
to the rightfield gallery. 

The four runs scored in the sixth put the Yankees ahead 5 to 4, 
and there was lovely poetic justice in this. If this was Casey's 
last game, how sweet that it should be a gift from Yogi, the only 
Yankee who was a Yankee when Casey arrived in New York, the 
only one who has shared his triumph and disaster since 1949. ^ 

Somebody up there hates sentiment. Somebody up there waited 
while the Yankees padded their lead by two more runs, then slipped 



56 Red Smith 

a pebble in front of a double-play grounder hit by Bill Virdon. 
The double play would have averted trouble in the eighth inning, 
but the ball leaped and struck at Tony Kubek like an angry cobra, 
sending him to the hospital with a smashed larynx. Moments later, 
Shantz was out of there and Hal Smith was capping that five-run 
binge. 

With the score 9 to 7 against them, fortune turned a false smile 
on the Yankees. Singles by Bobby Richardson, Dale Long and 
Mickey Mantle got one run home, put men on first and third with 
one out. Berra grounded out to Nelson, who stepped on first base 
for what he may have believed the final putout, then gazed incuri- 
ously at Mantle, sprawled face down a few feet from the bag. 
Mickey wriggled like a snake back to safety as Nelson made a be- 
lated stab and the tying run scampered home. 

Casey's old heart sang. A swan song? A brief song, anyhow. Mazer- 
oski was first up for Pittsburgh. 



OTHER BASEBALL 



BOSS OF THE YANKEES 
By Stanley Frank 

From The Saturday Evening Post 
Copyright, , 1960, Stanley Frank 



George Weiss winced at the inevitable question why did the 
New York Yankees collapse last year? We were talking in the den 
of Weiss's home in Greenwich, Connecticut. The room was crowded 
with souvenirs that emphasized the contrast between 1959 and 
other Yankee seasons. The prize exhibit among the pictures, tro- 
phies and autographed balls was a collection of eighteen gold 
watches and signet rings studded with diamonds. Each piece of 
jewelry represented an American League pennant won by the 
Yankees since Weiss joined the organization in 1932. He super- 
vised the farm system until the end of the 1947 season, then be- 
came boss of the entire operation as general manager. 

Baseball's most successful modern executive had no memento 
of 1959 in the room, nor is it likely that he ever will. After an un- 
precedented streak of nine pennants in the ten preceding years, 
the perennial champions skidded to third place, fifteen long games 
behind the Chicago White Sox. 

"Explaining why a ball club fell apart is an unusual experience 
for you/' I remarked to Weiss. "How does it feel?" 

He tried to put on an amiable, sporting smile, but it was obvi- 
ously an effort. "I can't say it's pleasant. The worst part of taking 
a bad licking is listening to the same questions and second guesses 
rehashed incessantly. Cab drivers, elevator operators, even strangers 
on the street want to know what happened to the Yankees last 
year." 

What's the answer? 

"I hate to be accused of making alibies for our poor showing," 
he said, "but injuries ruined the team." He glanced at a mimeo- 
graphed sheet with the Yankees' day-by-day record last year. "Casey 

57 



58 Stanley Frank 

Stengel was able to play his first-string line-up in only twenty-seven 
games all season." 

Naturally I couldn't let the subject go at that. I brought up the 
persistent rumors of strained relations between the ballplayers and 
the management. I suggested that it might have been more than 
sheer coincidence that every established Yankee except Skowron, 
Ditmar and Richardson fell below his normal level of performance 
in 1959. 

Weiss listened impassively to the critical summary. "I think you're 
dismissing the injury angle too lightly/' he said, keeping his voice 
at a conversational monotone. "Look at the White Sox last year. Fox 
played in every game on the schedule and Aparicio missed only 
four. If either one of those key men had been out for a month, I 
doubt that Chicago would have come through." 

Some experts gifted with the infallibility of hindsight believe that 
the Yankees' decline goes back to the closing stages of the 1958 
season when after piling up an overwhelming lead, the team failed 
to play .500 ball in the last fifty-five games. The Yankees then pulled 
the 1958 World Series out of the fire by winning the last three 
games from the Milwaukee Braves; but the same experts now dis- 
miss this as a last-gasp effort by a fading ball club. 

"George, let's assume the Yankees had lost that Series to the 
Braves," I said. "Would you have made changes in the team's per- 
sonnel for 'Fifty-nine instead of standing pat? Did those three 
Series games give you, perhaps, a false sense of security?" 

He pondered the question. "They probably did. The team looked 
very bad losing three out of the first four to the Braves; but when 
it bounced back, I felt the players could turn on the heat any time 
they chose. So did Casey Stengel. I suppose the comeback did make 
a psychological difference in our evaluation of the team, especially 
the older men." 

When did Weiss first realize last year that the team was in serious 
trouble? 

"A lot later than the fans and the press," he admitted. "I was 
aggravated, but not really concerned, by the team's bad start. Late 
in April there was a stretch when we lost nine out of ten games, 
all of them by one run or in extra innings. That's the mark of a 
bad team. But Mantle was out with a leg injury, and I thought his 
return would pick up the slack. Although we continued to play 
awfully sloppy ball, we were only a game and a half out of first 



Boss of the Yankees 59 

place on June twentieth. I was convinced we would take charge 
of the race with one good spurt." 

And then the team lost five straight in Boston immediately after 
the first All-Star Game. Was that when Weiss privately conceded 
that the Yankees were out of it? 

"No. They came back to the Stadium and won five out of seven 
from the White Sox and Indians, the clubs they had to beat. They 
still seemed able to turn on the pressure at will. But then the bubble 
burst. They had a terrible Western trip and came back trailing by 
twelve games, and Skowron, our best hitter, went out for the season 
with a broken wrist. That's when I finally gave up on the team/ 1 

When did the players give up on themselves? 

"That's a leading question. Maybe they weren't hungry enough/ 1 
he said. He hesitated briefly. "I don't want to be accused of con- 
demning players for trying to make themselves financially secure 
after they're finished in baseball, but maybe the Yankees had too 
many outside interests on their minds. All the key men are inde- 
pendently wealthy from the high salaries and the World Series 
shares they've been getting for a long time. They've invested their 
money in business propositions. The attention they gave to personal 
activities might have detracted from their concentration on baseball. 
They weren't living and breathing the game twenty-four hours a 
day as they did when they were rookies. 

"Oh, they wanted to win and they hustled, but they had an air 
of complacency. Good salaries and the pension plan are great things 
for the players, but they do contribute to an attitude of self-satis- 
faction." 

The only other years during the last quarter century when the 
Yankees blew pennants they were favored to win were 1954 and 
1940. I asked Weiss whether there was any similarity between 1959 
and those two earlier upsets. 

"Not really," he said. "The 'Fifty-four team won 103 games, the 
top total during Casey's regime, but the Indians set a league record 
by winning 111. You hardly can say the Yankees loafed that season. 
As for 1940 well, I made mistakes last year, but at least I didn't 
pull the boner of giving away the pennant, which is what I did in 

'Forty." 

Time out, please. It came as a great surprise to learn that the 
Yankees ever gave away anything except rain checks. 

"I talked Connie Mack into drafting the pitcher who beat us 



6o Stanley Frank 

out of that pennant/' Weiss explained. "He was Johnny Babich, a 
right-hander who had been knocking around for a long time and 
was with Kansas City, then our farm in the American Association. 
The rule was that only one player a year could be drafted from a 
minor-league team. We had several good young prospects at Kansas 
City, and Babich didn't fit into our plans. To protect the rookies 
from the draft, I persuaded Mack to claim Babich for the Phila- 
delphia Athletics. Babich turned around and beat us five times in 
Torty, including the game that knocked us out of the race on the 
next-to-last day. Nothing like that happened last year. Things were 
tough enough without the opposition getting an assist from me." 

I remarked, "This may be reaching for an angle, but there was 
another parallel between 1940 and 1959." 

He looked puzzled. "You mean both teams were shooting for 
a fifth-straight pennant?" 

"That's not it. I mean the fans' reaction to the center fielder 
on each team DiMaggio and Mantle. They almost booed Mantle 
out of the park last year, just as they gave DiMaggio a rough time 
in 'Forty." 

Weiss nodded glumly. Sooner or later the discussion had to get 
around to Mickey Mantle, the Yankees' chief threat and disappoint- 
ment. Mantle seemed to have arrived as a superstar in 1956 when, 
at the age of twenty-four, he led the American League with a .353 
average, fifty-two home runs and 130 runs batted in. However, 
he hasn't maintained that pace. In 1959 he fell off to a .285 aver- 
age, thirty-one homers and seventy-five RBI's. 

"It's strange how many things influence the fans' attitude," Weiss 
mused. "When DiMaggio retired nine seasons ago, he was the 
most popular player the Yankees ever had, with the exception of 
Babe Ruth. During most of his career, though, there was an under- 
current of hostility toward him. It began in 1938, his third year, 
when he got mixed up with Joe Gould" a fight manager who 
later became an Army captain in World War II and went to prison 
for accepting bribes to influence Government contract awards. "On 
Gould's advice, DiMaggio held out past the opening of the 1938 
campaign for $25,000. That was a lot of money during the de- 
pression, and many people resented a kid's getting this much for 
playing a game while men with families were out of work or earn- 
ing five dollars a day. 

"DiMaggio was a great competitor, but the fans really didn't 



Boss of the Yankees 61 

warm up to him until the last weekend in 'Forty-nine, when the 
Red Sox came into the stadium needing one of two games to clinch 
the pennant. DiMaggio got out of a sickbed and helped the team 
win both games to nose out the Red Sox. He could do no wrong 
after that, but it took thirteen years to change the fans' impression 
of him/' 

How about the Mantle case? What was the origin of the antago- 
nism toward Mickey? 

Weiss declared, "It probably was a combination of several fac- 
tors. I suppose there were some fans who would have been critical 
of anyone who took DiMaggio's place. Then, about twenty-five 
per cent of the crowds at the Stadium are out-of-towners. They 
naturally get on Mantle, the star of the team, even when he's going 
well. 

"I'm not so sure, though, that the abuse directed at him is en- 
tirely an expression of anti-New York feeling. He receives more 
applause on the road than he gets at home. The situation is a diffi- 
cult public-relations problem that he and the team have to live 
with." 

Did the Copacabana incident turn the customers against Mantle? 

"It didn't help him," Weiss snapped. 

At two a.m. on May 15, 1957, a party of Yankees Mantle, 
Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, Hank Bauer, Johnny Kucks and their 
w i ves W ere celebrating teammate Billy Martin's birthday at the 
Copacabana, a New York night club. A hassle developed with a 
group at the next table. One word led to another, and Bauer landed 
in court, accused of taking a punch at a disputant. He was cleared 
of the charge. Weiss was less lenient with the six players. He fined 
them $1000 each for breaking training rules. A month later Billy 
Martin, generally regarded as the ringleader of the team's cafe- 
society set, was traded to Kansas City. 

"A private investigation satisfied me that our men didn't start 
the trouble," Weiss said, "but professional athletes should have 
better sense than to allow themselves to get involved in such affairs. 
You have no idea how damaging the publicity was. A national TV 
network was considering the Yankees for the same sort of inspira- 
tional show that is built around institutions like West Point and 
Annapolis. This might have steered some good prospects to us, 
and the players could have made some extra money appearing on 
the program, but the project was shelved after the Copa affair." 



62 Stanley Frank 

"Getting back to Mantle," I said, "does the rough treatment 
from the crowd affect his playing?" 

"I don't think so at least he never complains about it. All players 
cultivate a deadpan, a protective shell, toward razzing. A man who 
is bothered by it won't last a month in the big leagues. Besides, 
Mantle has a pretty phlegmatic disposition." 

"That's a tactful way of summing up his attitude," I commented. 

The implication was not lost upon Weiss. He leaned forward 
intently and chose his words carefully. "He's an enigma. We've 
never had a player who was the subject of as much discussion and 
analysis. Our entire organization has tried to discover why Mantle 
hasn't capitalized on his enormous potential, and we obviously 
haven't found the answer. 

"Physically, Mantle has the attributes of a superstar, a blend of 
Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb. He is much faster than DiMaggio was 
and he has more power, with the added advantage of being a 
switch-hitter and getting the benefit of the short rightfield fence 
in the Stadium. DiMaggio was a better fielder, but Mantle com- 
pensates for that with a stronger arm than Joe had after he hurt his 
shoulder. Add up Mantle's assets, and he's superior to DiMaggio 
but he hasn't come close to proving it yet." 

Would it be correct to say the Yankees believe it's entirely up to 
Mantle himself whether he ever reaches the top rung? 

Weiss nodded gravely. "We've done everything possible to help 
him. We eased the pressure on him when he came up as DiMaggio's 
replacement and we tried to give him guidance when he became 
a celebrity. The boy got a bad break when his father died just be- 
fore he started his first season as a regular. There was a close re- 
lationship between them, and I think Mantle would have avoided 
a lot of mistakes if his father had lived." 

What about the theory that Mantle would pep up if Billy Martin, 
his old side-kick, came back to the Yankees? 

The remark did not amuse Weiss. "I generally don't comment on 
men after they leave the Yankees, but I'm getting tired of hearing 
what a great money player and spark plug Martin is. Since we 
traded him, Martin has not lasted more than one year wherever he's 
played Kansas City, Detroit, Cleveland. It's worthy of note, too, 
that when Cleveland offered Martin to National League clubs last 
December, John McHale, Milwaukee's general manager who was 
with Detroit when Martin played there didn't try to make a deal 



Boss of the Yankees 63 

for Martin, even though the Braves were desperate for a second 
baseman." 

I said, "I don't mean to belabor a touchy point, but there has 
been a steady flow of stories in the papers recently that seem to 
indicate discipline problems and a deterioration of morale among 
the Yankees. The public's concept of the team has undergone a de- 
cided change/' 

"That's true/' Weiss admitted, "but there's no basis for it. People 
have been looking for incidents since the Copa affair." 

"Have you been satisfied with the conduct of the Yankees off 
the field in the last two years?" 

"Yes. Certainly last year. The year before there were things I 
didn't like, but the players were straightened out fast. There have 
been reports that we hire detectives to check up on the players. 
We haven't resorted to that to any great extent well, no more 
than other teams." 

"George, old-timers who knew Casey Stengel as a player wonder 
whether he has the temperament to enforce discipline because he 
was a cutup and a night owl himself. Do you think he's too indul- 
gent with his men?" 

"Casey can get just as tough as the occasion demands," Weiss 
replied. "He didn't pull his punches last year when he criticized 
them publicly for late hours and failing to measure up to their 
capabilities." 

I persisted. "Casey didn't mention names, though. I've been told 
that players who were in the clear resented the blanket indictment. 
There are people who maintain that the blast cost the Yankees 
the pennant." 

Weiss made an impatient gesture with his hand. "That's ridicu- 
lous. Do you believe a player going up to hit was brooding over 
Casey's outburst six months earlier? Anyone who said his morale 
was hurt by it was giving an alibi, pure and simple." 

I trotted out another familiar charge that some of the players 
dislike Stengel's two-platoon system and feel that his continual 
line-up changes and shifts to different positions have hurt their 
efficiency and cut down the salaries they could earn if they were 
regulars. "Do the players ever gripe to you that they could make 
more money if Casey didn't uproot them?" I asked. 

"No, and I'd be the first to hear about it in contract negotiations if 
players thought they had legitimate complaints. Casey says he added 



64 Stanley Frank 

several years to the major-league careers of men such as Bauer, 
McDougald, Brown and Collins by picking spots for them against 
certain types of pitching, and I think the players generally agree 
with him." 

He tugged at his shirt collar. "Look, this line of questioning im- 
plies that there's friction between Casey and the team. I'd like to 
make one thing clear. The players have tremendous respect for 
Casey's ability. Don't be fooled by his double talk and his trick of 
telling four complicated stories at the same time. He does that de- 
liberately to duck ticklish questions asked by newspapermen. Casey 
is perfectly capable of giving a straightforward explanation for 
every move he makes. His attention to details and the depths of his 
reasoning would amaze you." 

I asked Weiss to cite a conspicuous example of Casey's master- 
minding. 

"Well, he floored me in the final World Series game against 
Brooklyn four years ago. Newcombe, a right-hander, was pitching 
for the Dodgers, and I assumed Casey would load the line-up with 
left-handed hitters. Our left-handed platoon had such veterans as 
Collins at first base and Slaughter in left field, but Casey told me 
he was starting Skowron and Howard, comparatively inexperienced 
right-handed hitters. 

" 'My two fellers tagged that other feller real good in spring 
training the year before last/ Casey said. 'They were real brave 
taking toe holds on his fast ball, and I figger we'll need a big belt 
to win here in Brooklyn, which we ain't done yet in the Series. Those 
two fellers on the bench' he meant Collins and Slaughter 
'don't hit a long ball, and the kids have wonderful muscles which 
they can use for reaching the seats/ 

"You know what happened. Howard knocked out Newcombe 
with a home run, and Skowron later hit one with the bases full 
off Craig, another right-hander. Casey doesn't keep statistics or notes. 
He arrives at his decisions by observation and instinct/' 

"George, that's .the cue for a loaded question," I said. "Observa- 
tion and instinct also guide a scout in appraising new talent. The 
Yankee farm system has not sent up a first-class rookie in three 
years. Critics say your department was directly responsible for the 
team's collapse last season by failing to provide the reinforcements 
it needed." 

Weiss was unruffled. "We were prepared for normal emergencies. 



Boss of the Yankees 65 

After all, we lost Skowron, McDougald and Carey from the infield 
at the same time. I can't deny, though, that there has heen a decline 
in the caliber of our rookies. The farm system has been hit hard by 
the cutback in minor leagues all along the line." 

Pictures on the walls of Weiss's den highlighted the radically 
different methods that have been employed to build winners in 
three distinct eras of the Yankee dynasty. In the igso's, the late owner 
Jake Ruppert laid the foundation for six pennants by paying the 
Red Sox $500,000 for Babe Ruth and eight other stars. In the 1930*5, 
when the farm-system idea originated by Branch Rickey became 
dominant, Weiss founded the most successful minor-league chain 
of all. Between 1936 and 1947 the Yankees won eight pennants with 
a steady flow of fresh talent developed on their own farm clubs. 

In 1948, Weiss's first full year as general manager, the Yankees 
controlled some 600 players on twenty-three farm teams. Today 
they have 250 players on nine subsidiaries. Over all, the number 
of baseball minor leagues has dwindled from fifty-eight to twenty- 
one. 

In recent years trades for pitchers have featured the Yankees' 
maneuvers. I pointed out to Weiss that such men as Reynolds, 
Lopat, Sain, Turley, Larsen, Shantz, Ditmar and Duren had been 
acquired from other big-league clubs. I observed that the only 
notable pitcher the Yankee farm system has produced in the last 
decade is Ford. 

Weiss entered one dissent to this analysis. "You're forgetting that 
those trades were possible only because we could offer in exchange 
players developed in our farm system. I'll admit our farms have 
not been turning out pitchers, but they have yielded infielders 
and outfielders and catchers other clubs want." 

On the matter of trades, there has been some violent criticism 
of the frequent deals fifteen in the last five years between the 
Yankees and the Kansas City Athletics. Critics bring up the fact 
that Arnold Johnson, the Athletics' majority stockholder who died 
on March ninth, and Del Webb, co-owner of the Yankees, had been 
associated in business ventures outside of baseball. I invited Weiss 
to comment on this, and when he responded, there was a harsh 
overtone in his voice for the first time during the interview. 

"Anyone who insinuates there is collusion between the Yankees 
and Kansas City isn't speaking the truth," he said. "I tried to swing 
deals with every club in the league last winter. Bill Yeeck and Frank 



66 Stanley Frank 

Lane are the only people who criticize our dealings with Kansas 
City. All the vicious stones are inspired by them." 

Veeck, president of the White Sox, and Lane, general manager 
at Cleveland, seldom overlook opportunities to attack Weiss. When 
Chicago baseball writer Edgar Munzel and I did A VISIT WITH 
BILL VEECK for The Post last spring, Bill lead off the interview 
by taking a gratuitous slam at Weiss as a man "completely devoid 
of a sense of humor and the milk of human kindness." Lane often 
refers to Weiss as an arrogant cold fish. I asked Weiss whether he 
wanted to respond to such blasts. 

"I'd prefer to ignore them," he said, "but I can't under the cir- 
cumstances." He motioned to the tape recorder on the table be- 
tween us. "Turn that thing off. I want to consider what I say before 
it goes on the tape/' 

He stared ahead for perhaps two minutes, then addressed the 
microphone. "Both gentlemen are well known for their overpower- 
ing thirst for publicity, and their statements should be evaluated 
accordingly. I fail to recall when Mr. Lane ever won a pennant. If 
Mr. Veeck runs true to form he will fold his tent and depart after 
he makes a quick profit in Chicago, just as he did in Cleveland 
and St. Louis." 

I remarked that if Weiss had taken the opportunity that was 
offered him to become president of the American League after Will 
Harridge retired in January, 1959, his relations with Veeck and 
Lane would have been interesting to watch. 

Weiss shrugged. "That would have been a prize package of head- 
aches Veeck, Lane and the Continental League. It was a nice honor 
to receive after a long run, but the aspirin bills would have been 
terrific." 

Speaking of the Continental League, what is his opinion of this 
proposed third major circuit? 

"I'd hate to have my money involved in it. I don't see how it 
can remotely resemble a major-league setup for years and years. It 
won't even be a good triple-A league. It's a tribute to Branch 
Rickey's eloquence that the idea has reached the discussion stage." 

How long will it take the Continentals to reach the same level 
as the American and National leagues? 

"Much longer than the backers realize, and I doubt they have 
die money to fight off the huge losses they must take. Look at 
Arnold Johnson in Kansas City. He had a nucleus of big-leaguers 



Boss of the Yankees 67 

when he came into our league five years ago. He spent more than a 
million dollars annually and the team still is in seventh place* 

"It's easy for congressmen to say we should donate players to 
the new league, but they can't expect us to give up heavy invest- 
ments in talent. We've got to sink four hundred thousand dollars 
into farm systems for each acceptable man we get for the majors." 

I suggested that while the new league might be inferior in quality 
for a while, it could still draw well with tight races. 

"It hasn't worked out that way in existing minor leagues," Weiss 
retorted. "They have close races, but they're dying on the vine. The 
public won't accept a shoddy substitute for major-league ball." 

The Continental League is a particularly controversial issue in 
New York, the only locality where it will buck an established big- 
league franchise. The city contemplates building a 55,ooo-seat mu- 
nicipal stadium that the new league could use. The estimated cost 
is $15,000,000. 

"It's damned unfair for a stadium financed by public funds to 
operate against a private corporation that pays the city $500,000 a 
year in taxes/' Weiss fumed. "Anyone who says the park will pay 
for itself is crazy. Every municipal stadium in the country is a 
white elephant. The bidding for big attractions is so intense the 
plant has to be given away practically rent-free. The city won't lift 
a finger to help us get the parking space we need desperately at 
Yankee Stadium, but it's ready to pour money down the drain to 
accommodate the Continental League." 

In February the Yankees offered to turn over control of their park 
to the city and share it with the new league in return for a conces- 
sion on parking space. The proposal was promptly rejected by 
William Shea, head of the projected New York Continentals. 

"I can well understand why Shea wanted no part of the plan," 
Weiss said. "Imagine coming into the stadium with his bush-league 
outfit the day after a Yankee game. The fans would laugh him off 
the field." 

Getting down to more immediate cases, what will the customers 
see at Yankee Stadium this season? 

"The league's best team. I'm confident well win the pennant" 

I pointed out that Casey Stengel had been unusually cautious 
in answering the same question over the winter. 

"Casey went to the other extreme because he was burned on his 
pennant prediction last year," Weiss declared. "I think we'll sur- 



68 Stanley Frank 

prise everybody with our pitching, even if Ford and Turley don't 
come back all the way. The pitching famine in our farm system 
ended last year. We're going to have a more solid club with less 
platooning than in the past/' 

What about the team's morale? The Yankees had a large con- 
tingent of holdouts during the winter. 

"Some players reached the point where they made money too 
easily. They thought they deserved automatic raises just for putting 
on uniforms. I've gone back to the old-fashioned notion that raises 
have to be earned by performance." 

I showed Weiss a copy of The Saturday Evening Post of July 24, 
1948. "In this article I wrote about you, George, you made the 
following statement, 'I don't know much about the technique of the 
game; I wouldn't trust my judgment on a youngster for any sizable 
amount of money. But I do know this you've got to go along with 
players over a period of years. Few men will let you down if they 
had it once and there is no discernible cause for them to lose it.' 
Do you still subscribe to that?" 

"I do," he said. "You can't break up a winning combination and 
consign players to the scrap heap because of one disappointing 
year." 

"What about two disappointing years in succession? Is 1960 the 
crucial year that will determine whether the Yankees are over the 
hill or still the dominant power in the business?" 

"That's what we're going to find out," he said grimly. 



A SAD DAY FOR BASEBALL 

By Arthur Daley 

From The New York Times 
Copyright, , 1960, The New York Times 



Competence has ceased to be the measuring rod in the Yankee 
scheme of things. It can be overruled and negated by the date on a 
man's birth certificate. The Yankees cold-bloodedly jettisoned 
Charles Dillon Stengel as their manager yesterday, not because his 
immense skills had become impaired but only because he had 
passed his seventieth birthday. 

This has become an even blacker day for baseball than the resig- 
nation of John McGraw as manager of the Giants in 1932. But 
McGraw was ailing and he resigned voluntarily. However, Stengel 
still has the vigor that made him the most successful manager in 
diamond history the record book proves it and he did not resign. 

"I won't say I'm fired/' growled Casey into the microphone at a 
hushed and historic press conference. "You can say what you want 
to say. I'm not writin* it." Okay, then. He was fired. 

Nervously puffing on a cigarette, Dan Topping, co-owner of 
the Yankees with Del Webb, read a prepared statement. It was full 
of empty words, as barren of meaning as one of Casey's rhetorical 
flights into Stengelese. It was written more or less in the past tense 
and never did say bluntly whether the OF Perfesser quit of his own 
accord, was fired, or what. After reading it, Topping faded into 
the background as if ashamed of himself. He should be. 

Stengel was grim and unsmiling for the most part. That old 
ebullience burst through occasionally, as when he said that he had 
been required to attend "baseball meetings and, when stuck, the 
baseball writers' dinner" or when he declared that "Mrs. Stengel 
is my wife and she would want me to do somethin' somewhere be- 
cause she thinks I'm a pretty good manager." 

Without saying so specifically, Casey indicated that his own 
preference was to continue. "But," he said, "they have a program 
which should run into an old-age program and I am positive they 
are the owners of the ball club. Mr. Webb is of the same opinion 

69 



7o Arthur Daley 

as Mr. Topping as regards the age limit and Mr. Topping runs 
the ball club. I was told that my services were no longer desired." 

From the welter o words emerged the definite impression that 
George Weiss, the general manager of the Yankees, also is on his 
way out. But the front-office genius will be kicked upstairs. Casey 
didn't even get that much. He got a word of thanks, the sum of 
$160,000 from a profit-sharing plan and the back of Topping's 
hand. 

Gigantic organizations such as General Motors and United States 
Steel have retirement deadlines, but they have sense enough to use 
them with flexibility. However, a puny organization like the 
Yankees blindly adheres to the letter of its own law. It's a new law, 
too. It could have waited for implementation until Casey had de- 
cided to quit of his own will. 

In twelve years Stengel brought the Bombers the most produc- 
tive period in their glamorous history, ten pennants and seven 
world championships. He imparted warmth to a cold organization, 
giving it a colorful appeal that it couldn't have bought for millions 
of dollars. He was priceless. 

The Yankees never had it so good as they did under Stengel. 
He won for them in his first season of 1949 and he won for them 
in his final season of 1960. Significant is the fact that Yogi Berra 
is the only ballplayer to remain throughout the entire regime. In 
other words, Ol' Case demonstrated his genius in spite of constant 
turnovers in talent. 

Stengel avoided the use of Stengelese for most of his rambling 
discourse. He was so serious that he spoke grammatically, as if he 
were afraid that his resentment at such cavalier treatment would 
not seep through. There were only flashes of double-talk. 

In a throwaway line he hinted that the axe had been sharpened 
for him in 1958. But then he engineered the managerial miracle 
of having his Bombers win the last three games of the world series 
against the Milwaukee Braves. It checked the fall of the axe. 

"A little question in 1958 until the world series is over. A doubt 
in my mind." That's the way he phrased it, leaving everything to 
conjecture. 

Apparently he was bucking a stone wall this time. Even if he'd 
won the final game against the Pirates a week ago, it would not 
have saved him. He gave that idea in round-about language, indi- 
cating that he never did get to discussing his future because that 



A Sad Day for Baseball 71 

renowned reader of tea leaves, Topping, already had determined 
what that future would be. 

From a public relations standpoint the Yankees have done great 
damage to themselves. They may have done the same from a base- 
ball standpoint, especially if Weiss is to follow Casey into exile. 
It's a shabby way to treat the man who has not only brought them 
glory but also has given their dynasty firmer footing than it had 
ever had. So long, Case. You gave us twelve unforgettable years. 



JOURNEY TO JERSEY CITY 

By Andy McCutcheon 

From The Richmond News Leader 
Copyright, , 1960, The Richmond News Leader 



Your name is Jose Jiminez, say, and you are a baseball player for 
the Havana team in the International League. You are an excellent 
fielder, even flashy, and you can play almost any position. 

You don't hit many home runs because you don't have the power. 
You can bunt and hit in the opposite field and you can run like a 
deer when an extra bounce of the ball may mean a base hit. 

You grew up on the outskirts of Havana in a hovel hardly worthy 
of being called a home and you sneaked away every chance you got 
as a youngster to join the "beisbol" game down the street. 

You learned to play the hard, fast hops off a concrete infield off 
the Malecon and before you were 12 you were invited to play in 
one of Cuba's amateur leagues. You got better by the year. 

One day a scout from the Cuban Sugar Kings came to see you play 
and you got three hits and didn't make an error in the field. After 
the game he stopped to talk to you. 

He asked you to sign a contract and said some day you would play 
at Gran Stadium in Havana and maybe even with "Ceenceenati" in 
the "beeg" leagues with Minnie Minoso, Pedro Ramos and Camilo 
Pascual. 

You signed the contract for no bonus and a small salary which 
looked plenty big to you and you were sent to a Class D team in 
the States where everything was in a whirl. 

You couldn't speak English but with help from a teammate you 
learned how to order a meal and understand your manager's instruc- 
tions and sometimes at night you got lonely and cried. 

But you wanted to play baseball and you stuck with it and finally 
you went to spring training with the Sugar Kings and you didn't 
care whether you ever made it to "Ceenceenati" or not. 

Havana was the "beeg" leagues to you and you became a star in 
your own country, where the people speak the same language you do 
and your friends and family come to see you play. 

72 



Journey to Jersey City 73 

Fidel Castro overthrew dictator Batista and you were happy. You 
didn't pay much attention but you were happy because everyone 
said it was for democracy. 

When people started criticizing Castro you didn't pay much at- 
tention because baseball players don't pay much attention to poli- 
tics and you were a baseball player. 

And then last week your manager told you they were moving the 
Havana team out of Cuba probably to Jersey City because Castro 
and the United States weren't getting along very well. 

Jersey City? At first you said you wouldn't go. You said, "I'm a 
Cuban and I play in Cuba." But your American teammates tell you 
there will be no team in Cuba. 

You meet Gabe Paul, the big boss of the "Ceenceenati" team, on 
Sunday at Parker Field and he tells you to stay with the team the 
rest of this season and everything will be all right. 

Now you are in Miami and you are trying to decide what to- do. 
Your wife is a school teacher for the government back home and 
your brother is in the Cuban army. Should you leave them there? 

You could quit and go home but can you make a living out of 
baseball? They probably won't even let you play in the winter 
leagues if you leave the club now. 

You wonder why they take the team away from Mr. Maduro. You 
wonder why they say Cuba is anti-American when you joke and 
laugh all the time with the American players on the other teams. 

You are all mixed up. Your manager is going home, but he is an 
old man and he has had his baseball. Your baseball is ahead of you 
and you don't want to give it up. 

You decide to go to Jersey City. Surely Fidel will not be mad be- 
cause you are making a living the only way you know how. Surely 
he knows you love Cuba. 

You write your wife and tell her everything will be fine. The next 
season you will be back in Havana, where the people speak your 
language and your friends can see you play. 

But you are not sure and you keep your fingers crossed and you 
hope they won't boo you in Jersey City. 



HEADHUNTER WITH A HORSEHIDE 
By Al Stump 

From True 
Copyright, , 1960, Al Stump 



Emil (Buzzie) Bavasi can handle most things that come his way, 
including his boss and baseball's unloved man, Walter O'Malley. 
The Dodgers' general manager has slipped a balky Duke Snider into 
line, settled a budding feud between Charlie Neal and Maury Wills 
and fenced skillfully with political opportunists out West who want 
to muscle in on a world champion team's spoils. But Bavasi caught 
a new sort of problem late last August. 

Summoning Don Drysdale, the strikeout king of the majors, to his 
Coliseum office an hour before game time on August 28, Bavasi 
pointed to a chair. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I can hear you all right," said Drysdale, negligently leaning his 
6 feet 6 inches against the door. The 23-year-old side-armer went on 
to point out that he had little time to spare, since he was pitching a 
game against the Giants that night. 

Drysdale remained unflustered as Bavasi pulled open a drawer 
and removed a lo-inch plaque of brass and wood. It was inscribed 
as follows: 

To Be Seen Stand Up 

To Be Heard Speak Up 

To Be Appreciated Shut Upl 

"Put that on your mantel," snapped Bavasi, "and look at it every 
day." 

For a second, the big kid seemed about to bounce the trophy off 
Bavasf s head. Instead, he stuck it under his arm and without a word 
walked out to pitch his game against the Giants. The San Francisco 
bench jockeys, knowing their man, took it from there. 

Big D barely had time to let his temper beat him he was gone 
after 1^4 innings, giving up four doubles, a walk and a home run to 
Mays. He dragged himself off the field, beaten 5-0 amid a shower of 
Coliseum boos. 

74 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 75 

Five days earlier, in Pittsburgh, the Dodger ace had been knocked 
from the box and beaten, 9-3, in the first game of a doubleheader. 
Relieving Larry Sherry in the eighth inning of the nightcap, Drys- 
dale frittered away a 3-1 lead by twice walking Bob Skinner and 
blowing his top at Umpire Frank Secory, who earlier in the year had 
formally charged "Big D" with deliberately throwing beanballs at 
Willie Mays, and had turned him in to the league office for a $50 
fine. "A potato has better eyes than you!" Drysdale shrilled at Secory. 

In the tenth inning, the score tied 3-3, panic rode the Dodger 
bench as Drysdale, pitching angrily and carelessly, filled the bases 
with Pirates. Coach Charley Dressen and others in the Dodger dug- 
out whistled, yelled and rattled bats a signal to remind Drysdale 
that the next batter, Dick Groat, should be pitched to low and out- 
side. Groat is a punch-hitter with a liking for anything high and 
inside. 

The effect was to infuriate Drysdale further. Glaring at his bench, 
he fired the ball in tight and letter-high, with the intention of driv- 
ing Groat into the dirt. Groat stepped back and pulled it into left 
field to win the game, 4-3. 

The two defeats dropped the Dodgers into third place, an almost 
hopeless 41/2 games behind the Giants, and they were still numb 
with shock when Big D boiled all the way over. Sabotage, he said, 
had been going on all season. And the saboteurs, believe it or not, 
were members of the Dodger squad. 

"Some guys on this club put the best second-guessers to shame," 
he cried, when approached by a New York writer, Leonard Schecter. 
"They heckle me and whistle like crazy and blame me for every- 
thing that goes wrong, and I'm sick and tired of being the goat. 
They're driving me nuts!" 

If continued the youngster those involved in the backbiting 
could win games by talking, the Dodgers would be 17 games in front. 
"You know what I felt like doing today?" he said. "I felt like walk- 
ing over to the dugout and handing them the ball and saying 
'Here, let's see you throw it!' " 

Schecter's story, breaking on the eve of a critical series with the 
Giants, threw Dodger brass hats into the worst tailspin since Roy 
Campanella's auto accident. Drysdale named no specific names. But 
he did exonerate his fellow players from guilt, which centered sus- 
picion on those higher in the chain of command, and for 24 hours 
Buzzie Bavasi's phone never stopped ringing. WHO STABBED 



76 Al Stump 

BIG D IN THE BACK? asked one headline. IS HE PECK'S BAD 
BOY OR TREASON VICTIM? demanded another. 

A few days later the Dodgers had fought their way back into the 
race when Drysdale's turn came up against the Cardinals. This time 
he again exploded against the umpires and opposition, lasting just 
2 2/3 innings. He gave up two home runs, hit Card slugger Joe Cun- 
ningham with a fastball (hospitalizing him, briefly) and once more 
was accused of purposely throwing the pitch that can kill. 

'Til go on pitching my way if they fine me $5,000," he defiantly 
sounded off. "But if I'm fined again, I'll get a lawyer and sue the 
umpires and the president of the National League, too." 

What most people didn't know, he explained, was that player 
fines violated the due-process clause of the Constitution, and that 
any civil court on earth would throw them out. It was this outburst 
that led Bavasi to award the aforementioned plaque. No immediate 
benefit was apparent; when the Giants dismembered Drysdale that 
night, it seemed apparent that the Dodgers were finally through. 

But, as the world knows, they made it to the championship 
despite a problem which no one pretends to understand how to 
solve. Donald Scott Drysdale, the son of an old-pro pitcher who 
didn't quite reach the big-time, is one of the tallest and strongest 
men (215 pounds) ever to toe the mound, and probably, when in 
control of himself, the greatest server in the game. 

Today, the true side-arm pitcher has almost disappeared. Having 
started his career as an infielder, Drysdale uncoils his 6 feet 6 in a 
baseman's throw a wide, sweeping crossfire delivery in which arms 
and legs convolute and he reminds you of a man falling out of a 
tree. In every poll, he is named the "most feared" pitcher around. 
His murderous fastball crackles and jumps in a good eight inches on 
right-handed hitters. 

His curve is freakish, due to the slant of two fingers on his right 
hand. Drysdale broke the hand in 1955, the bones didn't set prop- 
erly and the malformation enables him to throw an exaggerated 
slider which has been known to break as much as two feet. "The 
trick is to see him get rid of the ball," says Gus Bell of Cincinnati, 
fourth in National League runs-driven-in last season. "Mostly, you 
can't. He's the toughest I've ever come across." With a lifetime .174 
average against Big D, Bell is in the same boat with Hank Aaron of 
the Braves. "On his good days," admits Aaron, "I'm outclassed." 
The league batting champ's over-all mark against Drysdale is .263. 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 77 

Homerun leader Eddie Mathews' is .216. Joe Adcock of Milwaukee 
is beaten before he swings his three-year record is .095. Orlando 
Cepeda, the Giants' wonder-boy, is .220, and clever ex-Red Johnny 
Temple is .148. A workhorse, Drysdale pitched 271 innings in 1959 
and struck out 242 men. 

This is fabulous flipping and it led both leagues by a mile, repre- 
senting the most strikeouts by any National Leaguer since Dazzy 
Vance in 1924. In fact, in this century, only Christy Mathewson and 
Vance have exceeded the mark. The Drysdale credentials go on and 
on: a boy prodigy of 18 who reached the majors after appearing in 
only 43 professional games ... a baby-faced rookie in 1956, the 
youngest performer in the big-time, who beat the Giants four times 
to clinch a Dodger pennant ... the winner of 17 games in his sec- 
ond year of competition . . . the Most Valuable Player in last July's 
All-Star game, and again a i7-game winner . . . the fellow whose 
blazing stuff once won 4 games in 3 consecutive days and who has 
struck out 14 Phillies, 12 Braves and 11 Cubs in respective after- 
noons. 

The rundown only deepens the gloom of Bavasi and Manager 
Walt Alston when they think of what the handsome lad could be, 
if he would conform to the pat manners of modern "company" ball- 
players. Stereotyping the Swede-Scotchman has become a project 
which keeps him up nights, listening to lectures, "Less sass and more 
class," is the byword. He must conquer his seething temper and ir- 
resistible urge to pop off against real or fancied enemies, without 
thought to the scandalous headlines this brings. He must count 10, 
think cool thoughts, develop sang-froid, turn the other cheek, be 
One of the Gang and not Peck's Bad Boy. 

Drysdale's reaction is: "What the hell's this got to do with pitch- 
ing?" A mixture of hair-trigger belligerency and school-girl sensi- 
tivity, he is a throwback to the old-time mound masters who put 
everything into their job and gloried in giving their emotions full 
play. The closest parallel is Bob (Lefty) Grove of 30 years ago. The 
bilious Old Mose broke enough furniture to fill a barn, regarded 
each defeat as a conspiracy by his teammates against him, and even 
terrorized his manager, Joe Cronin. An artistic temperament won 
300 games for Grove, one of the all-time great records. "Don is cut 
the same way, but he hasn't gone that far yet," says Fresco Thomp- 
son, chief of Dodger scouting. "He's the hardest loser in the business. 
The trouble is, he doesn't believe anyone should get a hit off him. 



78 Al Stump 

When he gets knocked around, everything goes black. He says and 
does things he regrets an hour later, but can't very well take 
back. He's just too much of a competitor for his own good/' 

Fred Haney, ex-Braves manager, has studied the young giant for 
three years and can't agree. "If they make a mechanic of him, hell 
never become a so-game winner. Let him work out his own problems 
and he's liable to be the greatest any of us have seen." 

Yet the standard strategy which teams use against the Pop-Off Kid 
is to give him the emotional rope to hang himself. It works con- 
stantly. As an example, one day he held a i-o seventh-inning lead 
on Cincinnati and had a masterful two-hitter almost sewed up. 
George Crowe, a light hitter, then tripled. A real pro would have 
taken it in stride, concentrating on preventing the run but down 
went Drysdale's long arm, up came the resin bag and he slammed it 
half way to second base. Frank Robinson, next up, made a jeering 
remark: "Is the little boy sore?" 

Drysdale's throw sent Robinson leaping for his life. His next was 
a wild pitch and Crowe scored. And then it was a shambles Robin- 
son walked, Bob Thurman hit a homer and a possible shut-out be- 
came a 3-1 defeat. 

A genuine set of rabbit ears isn't often seen outside the minors 
these days; Drysdale denies it, but his are the size of the March 
Hare's. In the third World Series game last fall, he detected some- 
one whistling at him. It was Don Gutteridge, a White Sox coach. 
Drysdale's head kept turning, angrily, at which Gutteridge increased 
the tempo of his whistling. 

Tony Cuccinello, another Sox coach, picked it up. He began to 
chant at Sox hitters "be ready!" and "come onl" interspersing 
this with more whistles. The two repeated phrases were to indicate 
to Drysdale that Cuccinello was tipping off Sox hitters when to ex- 
pect a fast ball, and when a curve. Very soon the treatment had 
Drysdale pawing the ground. He yelled at Ted Kluszewski, at bat, 
"Don't listen to himl He's got it all wrong he'll get you killed." 

As a matter of fact, as Cuccinello now reveals, no sign-stealing 
was intended or transmitted. The sole idea was to aggravate and dis- 
tract Drysdale, who had gone seven innings without allowing a run. 

Millions of viewers saw Big D on the verge of turning in a 
World Series shut-out led off the mound by Alston at this point. 
Kluszewski and Sherm Lollar hit consecutive singles off him and he 
was replaced by Larry Sherry, a mere babe in the woods, but one who 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 79 

has trained himself to be soundproof. Sherry, for saving the game, 
was the hero, although Drysdale did 80 per cent of the work. 

When questioned about this, Drysdale grows resentful. Sitting 
in his fine new modern home in Van Nuys, California, which his 
$35,000 salary with the Dodgers permits him, with the expensive 
diachondra lawn in front and the yucca-tree-and-bougainvillea land- 
scaping, Big D said recently, "Nothing makes me madder than to 
have someone say that my getting mad hurts my pitching. Ill admit 
I've got a rotten temper. So what's wrong with that? Bob Friend of 
the Pirates and Mike McCormick of the Giants are placid guys, and 
they lost 35 games last year. I hate all hitters. I start a game mad 
and I stay that way until it's over. I guess I'm a perfectionist. When 
I throw a curve that hangs, and it goes for a hit, I want to chew up 
my glove. I want to bite nails in half. I want to stop time and take 
the pitch over, but I can't and that makes me madder than ever. 

"But let me show you where it helps. When you're doing a lousy 
job of pitching, getting blasted every time out, the game becomes a 
drudgery. It's easy for some guys to say 'what's the use?' and quit 
on themselves. Pitching careers end that way all the time. But me 
I'm sore. I'll never give up. I'm determined to get even, somehow, 
with the teams that beat me." 

If this seems immature thinking, it is thinking the old-time 
horsehide-fmgers understood well, and made pay, and it comes 
from an oddly gentle-looking ballplayer. Big D has boyish features, 
smiling sky-blue eyes, a warm personality and doesn't use whiskey 
or cigarettes. A woman admirer says he looks like Skeeziks grown 
up. 

When he was knocked off the mound in his early years, it wasn't 
unusual for him to shed juvenile tears in the clubhouse. At 23, there 
remains a soft, unformed shape to his face. Altogether, Big D is a 
strange creature to have established a reputation as the foremost 
stick-it-in-their-ear, rock-bottom mean, combustible pitcher of the 
day. 

"Listen," he told me, "some day I'd like to be turned loose in a 
china shop with a fungo bat. Then they'd have something to write 
about. ..." 

The official Dodger policy is to treat him with forebearance, when 
possible, although at times it is almost too much for flesh and blood 
to bear. Once, when removed for a relief pitcher, he slung his glove 
along the dugout into the face of a teammate, who came up with 



8o Al Stump 

fists clenched. Joe Becker a coach charged with pouring water on 
Drysdale when needed broke it up. 

Last season he exploded at catcher Johnny Roseboro when the 
opposing batsman hit one over the fence. He's also taken out his 
frustration on Wally Moon, after the leftfielder failed to climb 
20 feet up the Coliseum screen to intercept a base hit. "One day," 
remarks a Dodger player, "Drysdale screamed so loud at Don Zim- 
mer after Zim missed a ball at shortstop that his voice changed to 
soprano. Somebody suggested that Alston ought to get a baby cradle 
and put it in the clubhouse for Drysdale. Then he blew all of his 
fuses, 

The Dodgers commit more than the usual number of errors when 
playing behind Don, with the explanation that he makes them 
"nervous." It reminds you of the story about the horse. 

After the World Series, Drysdale was signed to play a part in 
the TV series, The Lawman. The role went well some predict a 
motion-picture future for him, should he ever leave baseball 
until it came time for him to mount his steed. With the cameras 
rolling, he approached, and the animal leaped six feet away. The 
"take" was ruined. Six takes later, Drysdale was still trying to get 
aboard. The horse was almost hysterical, and so was the director. 

On the eighth take he gave the horse his dirtiest look, hooked a 
boot in the stirrup, and the horse went to the bathroom all over 
the sound set. 

"A perfect candidate for the Dodger infield," remarked an ob- 
server. 

Buzzie Bavasi is known as a clever handler of men. His method 
with Drysdale is to use the deftly-applied needle, showing up his 
blow-ups as a case of delayed infantilism. After Big D threatened 
to take the National League to court in the Cunningham incident 
last September, Bavasi had reason to telephone to the pitcher's 
home. Drysdale is married to a svelte model and ex-Tournament 
of Roses princess, the former Ginger Dubberly. They have an in- 
fant daughter, Kelly Jean. The phone rang a long time before Gin- 
ger answered. "Sorry," she apologized, "I was bathing the baby." 

"Which one?" inquired Bavasi. 

Don's complaint in Pittsburgh that unknown characters on 
his own bench were sabotaging him with hoots, yelps and second- 
guesses shocked the general manager speechless for a moment, but 
then he wired Drysdale: "UNDERSTAND YOU PUT FOOT IN 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 81 

MOUTH AGAIN. KELLY JEAN HAS MORE SENSE. MY LOVE 
TO GINGER NOT YOU." 

The one treatment for Don's troubles which, has been effective is 
no longer available. Before Roy Campanella's crippling accident, 
the veteran of 1,215 big-league games caught every game Drysdale 
pitched. At the first sign of an eruption, Campy would stop tie ac- 
tion and slowly walk out. "Boy," he would growl, softly, "I'm. go- 
ing to say this once. You go getting hot on me and I'm gonna boot 
your pants right here in front of everybody. And my spikes are 
sharp today. Now you want your butt kicked or you want to 
pitchf" 

In his one full campaign under Campanella's dominance, 1957, 
there were no paroxysms or pop-offs, and Big D was sensational: 
he was second in the league in earned-run average at 2.69, scored 
four shut-outs and at the age of 20 won 17 games against 9 defeats. 
But Roseboro and Joe Pignatano, his current catchers, more often 
find themselves accomplices in his blow-ups. 

Last summer, with a hostile crowd on his neck in San Francisco, 
he walked the first three batters in the opening inning. Dust flew 
as he tried to throw the resin bag through the ground. "There he 
blows!" chorused the Giant bench. 

The fourth batter, Orlando Cepeda, took a curve knee high 
and on the corner. Umpire Al Barlick brashly called it a ball. In 
four long leaps, Drysdale was at the plate. "Where was it?" he 
snarled at Barlick. 

"Not where it could help you," said Barlick. 

Seizing Pignatano, his battery mate, Big D said, "Where was it, 
Joe?" 

"Hell," said Pignatano, "it was right over." 

"See?" Drysdale yelled. "That's two who know it was good! 
So does everyone else in the joint!" 

"Unfortunately," remarked Barlick, "only my opinion counts. 
Now get going before I run you out." 

His critics in Los Angeles have named Don "The Mouth," sug- 
gested he wear ear-plugs on the diamond, shaken baby-rattles at 
him, mailed him tranquilizer pills, theorized that he suffers from 
an inferiority complex, waved crying towels and published the ques- 
tion: "Isn't it time to wonder if in this child monster the Dodgers 
are saddled with another Piersall case?" (In the well-known Jim 
Piersall situation, the excessive urge to succeed resulted in temporary 



82 Al Stump 

mental collapse.) Still, there's an army of Drysdale rooters who 
respect his ability to beat key teams he once throttled the Mil- 
waukee Braves eight straight times, and he's beaten the hated 
Giants 14 out of 21 tries and his willingness to back up his dis- 
position, when necessary. 

In Milwaukee, a while back, the Braves bombed Big D with 
home runs and a 4-0 lead in the first inning. His description of his 
soulful thoughts at that moment is revealing: 

"Johnny Logan was up next. He was strutting around up there 
and digging in and showing me his teeth and acting like he owned 
the place. A charge went right through me. I look at this guy and 
tell myself, 'Okay, Buster, you asked for it/ And I aim one inside 
to let him know who's boss." 

Logan was almost decapitated. He spun at the last split-second 
in time to take the pitch below the base of his neck. When his 
head stopped ringing, he charged. 

In the season's wildest riot, which followed, Big D was under 
attack from all sides one Brave dived at his legs and held them 
while Eddie Mathews swung punches at his head and Logan beat 
his body. When Don toppled under a pile of players, Carl Sawatski 
sat astride his chest, banging away at his face. Kicked in the head 
and groin, Drysdale never stopped fighting. He opened an inch 
cut over Logan's eye and cut Sawatski's lip. His own wounds were 
large welts across the face and chest. 

Beginning then, it has been popular opinion in the league that 
Drysdale is the worst bean-ball offender since the sinister Sal Maglie 
a cold-blooded man at whose knee Drysdale studied when he first 
reached the majors. The reference is not to the common brush- 
back pitch, but to the deliberate attempt to hit and maim. 

The statistics make for a strong case: last season, "The Shooting- 
Gallery Kid," as the Braves call him, tied a record for hitting 
batters which had lasted 43 years. In 1915 Rube Ben ton of Cincin- 
nati speared 18 men in various parts of their anatomy, a mark which 
Big D now shares. 

In 1958, Drysdale connected with 14 batters, to lead both leagues 
by a substantial margin. 

More pointedly, his victims run to two types men with whom 
he's feuded and heavy sluggers who can do the most damage. He 
has clipped Sawatski three times, as well as Mathews, Felix Man- 
tilla and Frank Torre of the Braves, Mays and Cepeda of the Giants, 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 83 

Cunningham of St. Louis, Dick Stuart, Dale Long and Bob Skinner 
of the Pirates, and Ed Bouchee of the Phils, among a grand total 
of 43. 

Sad Sam Jones of the Giants and Ruben Gomez of the Phillies 
are ranked among the leading users of the dust-off pitch. But these 
two average out one hit batsman about every 28 innings. Drysdale's 
"hits" came every 15 innings in 1959. Nor can it be said that he 
lacks control and unavoidably beans them. His bases-on-balls career 
average is just over three per game, an excellent showing. What 
then? Is Drysdale to be judged guilty of the most lethal action in 
sports? 

Reflecting on the evidence, a Dodger official said, in his defense: 
"Hell, of those 18 guys he hit last year, at least 10 or is were purely 
accidental." Conceding that what of the others? 

Last May 9, Willie Mays had pulled a pitch into the stands off 
Drysdale, foul by inches. Next time they met, Mays went down 
with a fast ball in his back. "It was on purpose," said the umpire, 
in effect. Fine: $50. 

Last September 10, the Phillies weighted their line-up with left- 
handers, who always are difficult for Drysdale. He had perfect 
control, walking nobody and fanning 11. But he also threw rib- 
busters which hit 3 men, the one-game casualty high mark of the 
season. 

In July, '58, Dick Stuart of Pittsburgh singled and homered off 
Big D. The third time up, a ball felled Stuart. "He wasn't brushing 
me back," said Stuart, "the was aiming for my ear." 

On July 25, 1959, Robin Roberts was pitching strongly for the 
Phils when smacked so severely on his throwing arm he had to 
retire. Against a weak reliever, Drysdale went on to win, 5-2. 

"If he doesn't throw at us maliciously," Bill Rigney has said, "I 
don't know what you'd call it." 

The player most regularly up-ended by Drysdale is Hank Aaron, 
who once went a full season with but a single base hit off his neme- 
sis. "He makes you eat dirt," replies Aaron, to the question. "And 
that's all I got to say about him." 

Driving the batsman back, of course, is essential, but scruples must 
be observed, and last September 3 the matter came to a head when 
Joe Cunningham of the Cards put his team ahead, i-o, with a home 
run off Drysdale. Next time up he was knocked kicking and removed 
to a hospital for X-rays. Little Solly Hemus, the Card manager, flew 



84 Al Stump 

at Drysdale like a terrier after a mastiff and had to be forcibly re- 
moved. "We'll get Mm one of these days. He has to come to bat, 
too," Hemus later promised. "He's a headhunter, no two ways about 
it." 

Umpire Stan Landes recommended another fineing of the angry 
Dodger, but League President Warren Giles was reluctant, pos- 
sibly because Drysdale had begun quoting civil law and threaten- 
ing litigation. Many lawyers argue that arbitrary imposition of 
baseball fines without a hearing is in restraint of everything Frank- 
lin and Jefferson argued for, and could easily be overturned in court. 
Giles levied no fine. He wrote Drysdale a letter, bristling with the 
warning to drop the talk about suing Organized Baseball. 

"Giles hasn't a leg to stand on," young Don was saying, recently, 
"and neither have the umpires. They talk about 'intent* as if they 
could read my mind. I'm the only one who knows what I intended." 

It is contended by Walt Alston that with Drysdale's peculiar side- 
wheel style, in which the ball darts in "from third base" and breaks 
abruptly, he often can't tell where it will go. "In the World Series," 
Drysdale elaborates, "I almost skulled Nellie Fox when the ball 
sailed on me. I apologized and Nellie said to forget it. And another 
thing those guys who take a big stride into the pitch are leg- 
locked and can't jump back like they should. Or they think they 
can hog the plate. As long as I've got that little white thing in my 
hand, I'm in charge, and they better not forget it." 

Drysdale seems to be saying that if anybody gets killed, it won't 
be his fault. 

His hard core of ruthlessness comes through again and again. 
Other pitchers protest innocence when beanballs are mentioned. "I 
don't mind the reputation at all," goes on Big D, blandly. "In fact, 
it keeps the hitters loose. Sal Maglie once wrote an article called 
/ Always Threw The Beanball, and it was the living truth. Sal al- 
ways told me to put the fear in them by mowing them down, if I 
wanted to live long as a pitcher. I intend to be working in this league 
when I'm 35." 

If so, at his present rate, he will have earned roughly one-half- 
million dollars and hit the all-time record number of 259 batters. 

Scouts and swivel-chair executives won't admit it, but this is 
the attitude they look for usually in vain when signing boys to 
contracts. At 19 and 20, it's a rare youngster who will risk the 
batter's life by throwing at his head. Don was 18, just out of Boy 
Scout ranks, when he faced Mickey Mantle in an unimportant 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 85 

Florida pre-season game. He knocked Mantle down as if he'd never 
heard of his reputation. 

Casey Stengel complained that the Dodgers' "boob kid" might 
have ruined Mantle. "Yes/' said a Dodger official with satisfaction, 
"and it wouldn't bother him a damn bit." 

Behind such a player is a big, genial 205-pounder, Scott Drys- 
dale, who is Don's father. Now a repair foreman for the Pacific 
Telephone Company in Los Angeles, he pitched in the Coast League 
28 years ago. The Cincinnati Reds wanted to sign "Scotty"; how- 
ever, he quit the game at his wife's request. 

In Van Nuys, in the San Fernando Valley, where Don was born, 
July 23, 1936, you hear the story that he was spoon-fed to become 
a big-league star by a disappointed father. Everyone likes the Drys- 
dales, but many criticize the way Don grew up. Instead of being 
punished when he strayed out of line on the field, they say, Don 
was taught a new way to throw a change-up pitch by Scotty. A 
family friend observes, "Scotty's so likable that it's hard to say this 
but, around Don, he reminds me of Wallace Beery warning the de- 
linquents down at the pool hall not to slug passers-by, except on 
dark nights, because the cops might catch them. His heart just isn't 
in it." 

Well aware of the gossip that Don was spoiled, the senior Drys- 
dale takes a view that he raised a God-fearing son with the good 
sense to hate hitters as much as umpires, to think aggressively, and 
that if the Dodgers can't control the gift, it's their loss. 

At 13, Don was an infielder with a Van Nuys junior-league 
team, managed by Scotty. Not until he was 15, when his arm was 
"set" was he allowed to pitch a ball. Already 6 feet tall, Don was 
much too fast for the other kids and won 14 of 16 games as a prep- 
schooler. Seven big-league scouts entered the bidding to sign him, 
but when it came down to dollars and cents, the agents ran afoul 
a tough old pro who knew the racket inside out. All bids were al- 
lowed to cool, while Drysdale, Sr., made what seemed a completely 
mystifying move; he signed up as West Coast talent scout for the 
Dodgers. 

Branch Rickey, Sr.'s tanglewood of eyebrows hit the ceiling. 
Rickey, then operating the Pirates, figured the maneuver as: "Very 
astute. The Dodgers now appear to have the inside track. But 
consider what this does to the bonus price. B'Judas Priest, the boy 
is liable to cost any other team $100,000!" 

Perhaps Rickey was right, and maybe not; in any event, if there 



86 Al Stump 

was a bonus plot, it failed. Don hurt his elbow playing quarterback 
at Van Nuys High and couldn't raise his hands high enough to pull 
on a T-shirt. The scouts vanished into the night. And the Brooklyn 
Dodgers landed the questionable prodigy for $4,000, the non- 
bonus limit, and a $25o~a-nionth salary with Bakersfield in the Class 
G California League. 

As soon as it was learned that an orthopedist had cured the arm, 
four other teams filed protests with Commissioner Ford Frick, 
charging collusion between the Dodgers and Scott Drysdale. "A 
blatant device to freeze us out!" they claimed. 

Frick replied that the squawkers had been signing the fathers of 
good prospects to scout contracts who were grocery clerks, dog- 
catchers and whisky salesmen in order to gain an edge, and that 
Scott Drysdale happened to be a competent baseball man. "Petition 
denied/' said Frick. 

From the bush league in Bakersfield, Don wrote home, com- 
plaining about the 250-mile bus trips. "I'm 6 feet 4 now/' he re- 
ported, "and these blankety cramped buses are knotting up my 
legs." 

His reply was an unsympathetic note from Scotty: "Pitch your 
way out of the bus league." 

He did with spectacular speed, moving up to Class AAA Mont- 
real after 13 games, where he made it clear he intended to linger 
only briefly. Still not shaving, a rosy infant of barely 18, he jarred 
people at his 1955 spring tryout with his positive outlook. "I'm 
ready for the majors right now," he told Roy Campanella, who 
had been catching pro ball before Drysdale was born. 

It wasn't idle boasting. Greg Mulleavy, managing Montreal, 
learned that Don would endure anything to get ahead. One night 
the lid of a soft-drink machine fell on his hand, breaking several 
bones. Next day he was scheduled to pitch against Buffalo. Saying 
nothing about it, he snitched ethyl chloride (a freezing compound) 
from the trainer's kit, drenched his hand in the stuff and beat 
Buffalo, 4-3. Still keeping his secret, he went on working with a 
broken hand and won 11 games for Montreal. 

When the damage was detected, the bones wouldn't set. His 
slightly misshapen hand now is credited by Drysdale with helping 
his deliveries to jump wildly about the plate, giving the stoutest 
hitters the jitters. 

Gambling that his toughness would overcome his youth, the 



Headhunter with a Horsehide 87 

Dodgers brought him up in 1956. His deportment marks couldn't 
have been better, at first. In a 1957 ganie, he collided with a team- 
mate, but remained in the game. In a late inning, someone noticed 
that blood had soaked his sock and was running into his shoe. 
Inspection revealed a deep knee gash, which required a dozen 
stitches. "Why didn't you tell us?" Walt Alston demanded. 

"Didn't know it myself," said Don, who is aware only of crowd 
jeers and bench-jockey wisecracks when working. 

Last August he was sick all over the washroom of a plane flying 
the Dodgers to St. Louis. Still, he took his regular mound turn, and 
then went to bed with the influenza. It was more of a feat than the 
fans knew. Drysdale not only had a fever, he has been terrified of 
planes ever since he was almost killed aboard an aircraft which 
was caught in a tornado in Texas. 

His tantrums, the public mud-slinging, the threats to sue and the 
beanballs seem a not unfair exchange for the profits Drysdale has 
earned for Walter O'Malley. In fact, it has been suggested that 
O'Malley have guards armed with baseball bats pass amongst the 
Coliseum customers who boo and enrage Big D, and quiet them 
down. In the long run, it may be easier than pacifying the pitcher. 

Last winter, when the Dodgers were saying that he had turned 
over a new leaf and had promised to be good, Drysdale was asked 
by a fan at a Hot-Stove League banquet, "What makes you get so 
mad during a game? Don't you think it hurts your work?'* 

Big D glared at the fan. He ran a finger around his collar, which 
was getting hot. He started to open his mouth and the toast- 
master quickly jumped up. "Next question!" he said. Nobody in the 
room could think of one. Not with the deadliest right arm in base- 
ball facing them, and a set of heavy salt-and-pepper shakers at his 
elbow. 



MY KIND A' GUY 

By David Condon 

From The Chicago Tribune 

Copyright, , 1960, The Chicago Tribune 



He was my kind a' guy. A helluva fellah. Not because it was easy 
to get a story from him. Not because he was a humorous spellbinder. 
Not because he was a winner. Because he was fiercely loyal, proud 
with a passion, and once a friend, a friend forever. A helluva 
fellah. Casey Stengel. 

A guy could write 10 books about Stengel and still you'd have 
only a capsule picture of him. He was fabulous and fantastic. Even 
my kids loved him. To all of us, and I guess to all of America, 
Casey Stengel was a real gasser. 

So the Yankees went and fired him because he was 71. And one 
must wonder if the men who fired Casey, in all their wretched arro- 
gance, refused to remember that even their millions can't buy time. 
They can rub elbows with their bankers and look scornfully down, 
from their Stadium Club heights, on the peasants who have to trim 
the budget some place to buy baseball tickets, but time is some- 
thing they cannot put away in the lock box. The calendar will 
catch them, as it caught up with Casey, and then they'll know the 
loneliness to which they have exiled this wonderful old gnome. 

They think they're lonely now, these New York Yankee owners 
who have the baseball world against them because they gave Stengel 
shabby treatment. Wait until they're 71. Then they'll know the 
absolute hollowness of being lonely, and perhaps they'll remember 
Casey Stengel. 

Casey Stengel. A helluva fellah. My kind a' guy. And I'll remem- 
ber him forever. 

It was in a corner of a hotel in St. Petersburg, Fla., and Casey 
Stengel bustled into it and said: "Now maybe you wuz the duke of 
Winstor or someone else so important that you could ask me for an 
exclusive interview and make me leave all my guys upstairs. 

"So I suggest to you that if you want an exclusive story from 
Stengel, which is me, you come up and join the rest of the writers, 

88 



My Kind a' Guy 89 

which is up there having some beer courtesy of the New York base- 
ball club. They is up there listening to me, about 24 pairs of ears, 
and I only got your pair of ears down here. What percentage is that 
for me? 

"Now look, you're a young fellah in this racket and that's a real 
important column you got for that real important paper out there 
in one of my favorite towns, so right now I'm going to sit and give 
you whatever exclusive interview you want. Only next time if you 
want it real, extra exclusive, just write down what I say to all my 
writers. It will be exclusive because after I talk to them, they all 
goes away and makes up their own version of the interview." 

So Casey Stengel sat down and we visited alone, that wonderful 
afternoon almost five years ago. 

Casey Stengel is memorable in many ways, but newspaper men 
found him beloved for the respect and consideration he held for 
our craft. He never double crossed a writer, and he never lied to 
one. As he grew older, he grew kinder. He was kindest to the 
younger guys coming into the business. It happened to me, and it 
happened to a young New York fellow hastily summoned off the 
tennis beat to cover the Yankees. 

The young New Yorker barely made it to the train carrying the 
Yankees west. He scarcely was seated in his compartment when a 
knock came. An impish old man peered in: 

'Tm Stengel. You're the new kid. Well, let's order up a couple 
drinks and I'll fill yuh in on my club. Now see, you got an im- 
portant job and I want to see you keep it. You're an afternoon 
paper, see, so you got to get lots of feature angles. Give 'em lots of 
quotes. That's what them readers like. Now, always do your work 
first and then have your fun. And remember, give 'em those quotes. 
If you don't have no one else to quote, you can quote old Stengel, 
which is me. Quote me on anything except, of course, never an- 
nounce I'm quitting. Ill announce that myself when the time 
comes." 

But when the time came, Casey Stengel the particular friend 
of all young reporters in this wonderful game had to announce 
he was fired. God bless you, Casey. 



THE FOX WHO PLAYS LIKE A WOLF 
By Dick Schaap 

From True 
Copyright, , 1960, Dick Schaap 



Nellie Fox spat a slick stream of tobacco juice into the pocket 
of his glove. He had just been body-blocked at second base by Hank 
Bauer, and now he was angry not because he'd been hit, but be- 
cause he thought Bauer had left the baselines. Suddenly Casey 
Stengel popped out of the New York Yankee dugout and began 
waddling bowlegged toward the pitcher's mound. Fox glared at 
Stengel and spat again. "What are you going to do, you old sunuva- 
bitch?" Fox snarled. "Tell funny stories?" 

Jacob Nelson Fox, the scrappy little second baseman of the Chi- 
cago White Sox, talks tough; he is also prepared to back up his 
words. Fox is that rare breed, the athlete who talks tough, acts 
tough, and is tough. "Nellie's got guts he hasn't used yet," says team- 
mate Al Smith. 

To prove his ruggedness, Fox shrugs off injuries the way Tommy 
Manville shrugs off wives. Once, after the White Sox lost a close 
game in Washington, Fox hurried into the dressing room and, with- 
out looking, jerked a shirt out of his locker, unbalancing a row of 
connected lockers. "Look out, Nellie!" someone shouted, and Fox 
leaped back. But before he could get completely clear, several hun- 
dred pounds of lockers came cascading down, catching him below 
the waist and pinning him to the floor. Fox's teammates rushed over 
and lifted the lockers. "If I hadn't jumped, I probably would have 
been killed," Fox recalls. "I was scared. My legs felt numb. I was 
afraid I'd never walk again." He played the next game. 

Another time, during spring training a few years ago, a ground 
ball took a weird hop, skipped up and caught him flush in the 
mouth. The blow knocked out one tooth, broke a second and loos- 
ened several others, but Fox didn't say a word. After the inning 
ended, Chico Carrasquel, then the Chicago shortstop, went to the 
team trainer. "Nellie," Garrasquel said, "him hurt bad." 

"It's nothing," Fox insisted. "I'll stay in." 

9 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 91 

When Fox went to bat the following inning, he almost passed out 
from the pain. "Go see a dentist/' manager Paul Richards ordered. 
"Get those teeth fixed." 

"They'll wait,'* Fox said. "Ill get 'em fixed after the season/' 

Fox played the entire year and hit well over .300. Then in Oc- 
tober, before the hunting season opened, he visited a dentist. The 
dentist found 13 abscessed teeth. (As a reminder, Fox now plays with 
a bridge of false teeth.) 

If he were a strapping, muscular athlete, Fox's disregard for pain 
might be understandable. But he is a little man, smaller even than 
the 5-foot-io and 160 pounds he claims on the White Sox roster. 
What drives Fox to ignore injuries is not his size, but his spirit. He 
hates inaction. If he can walk, Fox figures, he can play. 

In 1951, a week before the end of the season, he jammed his 
thumb during a pre-game practice. The pennant race had already 
been decided, and manager Richards suggested that Fox skip the 
final week. "You're hitting .306," Richards said. "Take it easy. Keep 
the .300 average/' 

"I don't want to hit .300 sitting on the bench/* Fox snapped. "I 
want to do it playing." Fox played jammed thumb and all and 
finished at ,313. 

"Nellie/* says Al Lopez, the present Chicago manager, "is the 
hustlingest player in the major leagues," This is the basic impression 
that Nellie Fox creates a hustler. There is nothing wrong with 
hustle; it is, in fact, a most admirable characteristic. But a hustler 
without talent is like a stripper without looks. Fox has talent to 
match his hustle. He has one talent in particular; he can hit singles 
better than any other man in the world. 

For six years in a row, beginning in 1954, Nellie Fox has led the 
American League in singles. During those six years his batting 
average has been remarkably steady, fluctuating between a low of 
.296 and a high of .319. Last season, Fox hit .306, fourth in the 
league. 

Without belaboring statistics, it is worthwhile to note that, of 20 
major-league records established in the American League last year, 
Fox set seven. His marks ranged from most consecutive games played 
at second base (699) to most years leading league in singles (seven) 
to most years leading league in fewest strike-outs (eight). 

What do all these records mean? They mean that Fox is a batter 
who hits singles and doesn't strike out, and a ballplayer who misses 



g2 Dick Schaap 

games only under threat of death. If you think these are common 
traits in baseball, 1960, you are mistaken. 

This is the era of the home-run hitter, the man who swings from 
the end of the bat and to hell with the strike-outs. (Mickey Mantle, 
who has averaged 39 home runs for five years, struck out 126 times 
last season. Fox struck out 123 times in his first nine seasons.) 

This is the era of the mid-season rest, the vacation for the accom- 
plished player who tires during the year. (Mantle, without a serious 
injury, sat out 1 1 games last season. Fox has missed exactly one game 
in his last seven seasons.) 

Mantle, powerful and pampered, epitomizes the modern ball- 
player. Fox is a throwback. He belongs to a different age of baseball, 
an age when the long ball and the short rest were equal rarities. 
Before 1920, the year the lively ball was introduced, a home run was 
a phenomenon and baseball was a vicious, demanding game. Major 
leaguers played for blood, and the baserunner who didn't hone his 
spikes was inviting a second baseman to tag him in the teeth. Relief 
pitchers were an unborn breed, and the starter who couldn't work 
a full game every fourth day was invited to try something easier, 
like lumber jacking, for a trade. Men didn't complain about cut lips 
and swollen ankles, charley horses and stiff backs. They didn't col- 
lect fat bonuses and they didn't have college degrees. They played 
like hell and had trouble summoning up enough intelligence to say 
hello. 

Fox fits the old-time mold as though it were cut for him. Pick up 
Nellie Fox (which anyone of reasonable strength can do) and throw 
him back half a century. He might land hard, but he'd shake it off 
and then he'd be at home completely at home with the old Balti- 
more Orioles of John McGraw or the Detroit Tigers of Ty Cobb. 

You don't have to take my word for it. Listen to the ultimate wit- 
ness. Last winter, a few months after Fox won the award as 1959'$ 
most valuable American League player, he received an airmail letter 
from Glenbrook, Nevada. 

"Dear Nellie," the letter begins. "As you know I also played base- 
ball/ 1 The signature: Ty Cobb. 

"I felt an impulse now to write you," Cobb continues, "to extend 
my congratulations (for) the honors you have recently received and 
in particular to relate my admiration of your ability and play. . . . 
Fielding and at bat, your play is along the lines of the boys of yester- 
years, back during my days from 1905 to 1920. . . ." 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 93 

Cobb then explains how he feels the game of baseball should be 
played the way Fox plays it. "These are my humble opinions/' 
Cobb concludes, "written only in ... enthusiasm to a fellow that I 
admire. . . . You are sure to gain rewards. I predict that when you 
have to slow up ... you are strictly managerial material. This is all, 
much luck and success. . . . Sincerely, Ty Cobb." 

It isn't really surprising that Cobb, who blended toughness and 
talent more effectively than any other player in history, should single 
out Fox for praise. What is more startling is that modern spectators, 
players and sportswriters, tuned to an entirely different style, also 
recognize and appreciate Fox's skills. Amid all the clamor and head- 
lines for the home run kings Mantle and Mathews and Colavito 
and Banks Fox is the only player who has been named to The 
Sporting News all-major-league team four of the past five years. For 
nine consecutive seasons, he has been selected on the American 
League all-star team. To everyone who knows anything about base- 
ball, Fox is a master. He is the master of lost arts. 

What are these arts, these forgotten skills that Nellie Fox remem- 
bers? Start with his hitting. He bunts, he hits behind the base- 
runner and he goes for singles. You might argue that Fox's size 
forces him to be a singles hitter, but size is only part of the explana- 
tion. More important, Fox hits singles by design. 

Every aspect of Fox's batting style is geared toward the one-base 
hit. He uses the bottle bat, an outmoded weapon that derives its 
name, logically enough, from its appearance. Held handle up, it 
looks like a bottle. Slightly larger than normal size at the handle, 
the bottle bat bulges out into a fat surface. Fox chokes up on the 
bat, roughly six inches, so that his top hand almost touches the 
point of the bulge. 

Then, gripping this short, heavy bat in his surprisingly big hands, 
Fox swings smoothly, not viciously, and simply meets the ball. He 
consciously avoids taking a full cut. "Once in a while," Fox admits, 
"maybe in spring training, I'll swing with all my might. Or in bat- 
ting practice at Yankee Stadium, I'll go for home runs. When I do, I 
usually pop up. But in a game, I don't fool around." 

By softening his swing and choking up on his 34-inch bottle bat, 
Fox sacrifices leverage and strength, the prime assets of the long-ball 
hitter, who takes a full swing from the end of a tapered gG-inch bat. 
In return, Fox gains control. He rarely swings and misses because, 
when he is fooled by a pitch, he can still recover in time to get a 



94 Dick Schaap 

piece of the ball. He can also aim his shots with extraordinary 
accuracy. One inning, Fox, a lefthanded batter, may poke an out- 
side pitch into left field. The next inning, he may rifle the same 
pitch into right field. There is no reliable method of predicting 
where Fox will hit a given pitch at a given time. "Sometimes I go 
with the pitch/' he says. "I just hit it where it's thrown. But some- 
times I shift my feet. It depends on the situation." 

Fox is not an exceptionally swift runner and, since his forte is 
placement, infielders were originally tempted to play him deep 
where they could grab ground balls hit into the hole. To counter 
this defense, Fox made the bunt a part of his offense. In one stretch 
during the 1957 sea son, he beat out nine straight bunts. Third base- 
men today generally play Fox tight. His reaction was typical. He 
slaps the ball past them. 

If Fox's emphasis on singles seems somewhat outdated in the 
home run era, his bristling ruggedness is downright atavistic. Mod- 
ern baseball has been contaminated by courtesy. Baserunners, after 
smacking into an opponent, frequently apologize and offer a helping 
hand. Many pitchers say, "I'm sorry," when a delivery sails past a 
batter's skull. A few players even call umpires "sir." Fox, too, can be 
considerate and polite off the baseball field. But during a game, 
he neither gives nor requests gentle treatment. The fat wad of chew- 
ing tobacco that juts invariable out of Fox's jaw makes him look 
tough. He tries to live the role. 

As his experiences with the lockers and the abscessed teeth demon- 
strate, Fox can take punishment. There are no statistics kept on 
times body-blocked at second base, but if there were, Fox would 
probably hold another record. His first prominent collision took 
place in 1949, when he was a mediocre si -year-old rookie on the 
mediocre Philadelphia Athletics. One afternoon, Yankee outfielder 
Johnny Lindell decided, without notable originality, that the best 
way to break up a double play is to break up the second baseman. 
Lindell, 6-foot-4 and 220 pounds, barreled down the line at full 
throttle, lowered his head and sank his shoulder deep into the region 
of Fox's guts. When Nellie returned to earth, he was lying on the 
outfield grass, battered and dazed. Part of the game? 

"Sure," said Fox, after he regained power of speech. "Lindell was 
just doing his job." 

"No," said Will Harridge, the president of the American League, 
in a memo to umpires. "From now on, baserunners will slide at 
second base, not at second basemen." 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 95 

But baserunners will be baserunners, and an unending succession 
of other men, posing as irresistible forces, have sought to prove that 
Fox was no immovable object. Nearly half the time, the blocking 
back was a New York Yankee, notably Hank Bauer, Bill Skowron 
or Bob Cerv. With Cerv, the habit lingered, even when he was traded 
to Kansas City. Two years ago, Cerv crashed full force into Fox, 
after the second baseman had already made his relay to first. "It was 
hard and vicious," says Jim Landis, the White Sox centerfielder. 
"Nellie was cut and bruised so badly he could hardly walk. Anybody 
else would have taken a week off, but he was playing second base 
again the next day." 

Yet Fox has no gripe. "I've got nothing against Cerv," he insists. 
"He thought he was entitled to the bag. I thought I was. That's all." 

"Fox is a helluva ballplayer/' Cerv says. "Some second basemen 
just run across the base and get out of the way. Theyll never get 
the double play. But Nellie doesn't scare. He hangs around the bag. 
He goes for the double play." 

Since the day they collided in 1958, Fox and Cerv have occasion- 
ally socialized together. "A nice fellow," says Cerv, of Nellie. "A 
good guy," says Fox, of Bob. 

Suppose Cerv were a second baseman. Would Fox seek revenge? 
"Sure/ 1 says Nellie. "I'd hit him." 

Fox would, too. He hands out punishment as well as he absorbs 
it. For self-preservation, Fox employs a standard counterattack 
against a body-blocking baserunner. "I throw at his head," Fox says. 
"When I pivot, I throw right at him. Hell think twice before coming 
in standing up again." 

There is no secret union among second basemen, no "you-don't- 
hit-me-and-I-won't-hit-you" agreement. If there were, Fox would 
ignore it. In a game, his only friends are his teammates. Everyone 
else is an enemy. 'I've never tried to spike a second baseman de- 
liberately," he says, "but I don't go out of my way to avoid him, 
either. I'll throw a block at him once in a while. But what I usually 
do when I go in is keep my legs and arms moving. Maybe I'll hit 
him with a leg and throw him off-balance. Maybe my arm will up- 
set his leg. Or maybe 111 smack his glove and knock the ball loose. 
I'll break up the play any way I can." 

Fox tends to treat each game and each play as a personal vendetta; 
not because he is vindictive, but because he knows that he must 
struggle to survive. He is not a natural ballplayer, the type who 
walks into a training camp for the first time and promptly inspires 



96 Dick Schaap 

awe. The first time Fox walked into a training camp, he inspired 
mostly humor. 

In 1944, when the major leagues were manned by schoolboys and 
draft board rejects, Nelson Fox, a 5~foot-8 first baseman, showed up 
at the Philadelphia Athletics' pre-season base in Frederick, Mary- 
land, and began looking for a job. (He got one eventually with 
Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in the Inter-State League.) Red Smith, 
then sports columnist for the Philadelphia Record, recorded the 
coming of Fox: 

"A few days after the Athletics opened their camp, a truck rattled 
into the ramshackle Blue Ridge League park at Frederick and three 
people stepped out of the cab. There were a man and a woman and 
a moon-faced boy with a great big cigar sticking out of the middle 
of his features. The boy was 16 years old. The truck was somewhat 
older." 

Smith's column was graceful and light, a frothy story tinged with 
fantasy. He could not have suspected that someday the moon-faced 
boy would be a prominent star, with his own version of the tale. 
'Tor one thing," Fox now says, "it wasn't a truck. It was a car. My 
father never owned a truck. For another thing, my father would 
have paddled me if he saw me smoking a cigar. I didn't start smok- 
ing cigars until the next year." 

That year Fox returned to Lancaster and, for the first time, 
learned to play second base. (He learned to chew tobacco the same 
season. He tried licorice, but gave it up because it was too sweet. 
Today, he chews two ounces of tobacco a game one in the first five 
innings and one in the last four.) Then, after a year out for military 
duty, he spent two more seasons in the minor leagues. In 1949 Fox 
was promoted to the Athletics, but the move failed to shake the 
baseball world. He hit only .255 and, following the season, was 
traded to Chicago. At first, the shift to the midwest had little effect. 
Playing full time in 1950, Fox slumped to .247. Then came the turn- 
ing point. In 1951, Paul Richards was appointed manager of the 
White Sox. 

"Richards made me into a ballplayer/' Fox insists. "Him and the 
coaches, Doc Cramer and Luman Harris. Paul made me work on 
bunting. During spring training, I spent an hour a day doing noth- 
ing but bunting. Cramer and Harris took turns pitching to me. And 
Cramer concentrated on my hitting. He fixed up my stance. Got me 
to swing easier. Then he gave me his bat, the bottle bat. Everything 
helped." In 1951, Fox's batting average soared 66 points, to .313. 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 97 

"They worked on my fielding, too," Fox says. "Harris hit me 
grounders all day long/' In those days, second base was still rela- 
tively new to Fox, and he had little knowledge of the intricacies of 
the position. The double play in particular troubled him. Often, 
when he tried to pivot, he wound up crosslegged, twisted into an 
awkward knot. "It's a miracle he wasn't killed/' Richards once said. 

With the aid of Richards and Harris, Fox polished his fielding 
the way he has polished every phase of his game. Last year, Fox led 
the American League second basemen in fielding for the fourth 
time, putouts for the eighth time and total chances for the eighth 
time. He committed only 10 errors all season. 

Today, all the knowledge and insight that Richards and his 
coaches gave to Fox have been blended and refined. Now, after 
spending half his 32 years as a professional athlete, Fox is a star. No 
one appreciates this more than his teammates. "You don't get where 
Nellie's at without hard work," outfielder Al Smith insists. "To me, 
he's just what they awarded him the Most Valuable Player." 

"Nellie is the ballplayer of the era," maintains Jim Rivera. "He 
gives 100 per cent and he always wears the same size hat. We don't 
have a captain on our club, but there's no question who's the head 
man. It's Nellie. He's the holler guy. The pep talker." 

As team captain without portfolio, Fox's duties begin before a 
game, when other players ask him for advice. "He taught me about 
the pitchers; who throws what," says Norm Cash, a rookie first base- 
man last year, who is now with Detroit. 

Then, during a game, Fox supplies a steady stream of chatter, 
both from second base and from the bench. Four years ago Marty 
Marion, who was then managing the White Sox, tried to rest Fox 
for a few games during spring training. "All of a sudden," Marion 
recalls, "the club started looking dead. It frightened me. In a couple 
of days, I realized what it was. I was missing the racket that Fox 
makes." 

Fox would be an excellent bench jockey, except for one embar- 
rassing flaw. "He squeaks," Rivera says. "He and Bill Summers used 
to get at each other. When Summers was umpiring at third base, Fox 
would yell, 'Applehead.' He'd get halfway through the word and 
then you know he's got those false choppers and that big wad of 
tobacco he'd squeak. You couldn't hear the rest of the word." 

The White Sox are a relaxed group and no one does more to keep 
them loose than Fox. He is the self-appointed team jester. One day, 
he may grab shortstop Luis Aparicio's socks and shoelaces and tie 



98 Dick Schaap 

them into tight knots. The next day, at breakfast, he may decide 
that pitcher Billy Pierce's coffee needs flavoring with salt and 
pepper. But Aparicio and Pierce are only secondary targets. Fox's 
favorite victim is Rivera. 

"One time last year," Rivera says, "I left my glove lying next to 
the bat box. I was the last man up that inning. When I came back 
and put on my glove, tobacco juice rolled down my arm." Perry 
Mason was not needed to determine the culprit. 

His teammates, naturally, do not permit Fox's needling to go un- 
requited. Whenever he hits a home run (which happens roughly 
twice a year), Fox receives special treatment. Early in the 1955 sea- 
son, he cleared the fence at Comiskey Park for the first time in his 
career. As Fox approached third base he saw, instead of the tradi- 
tional outthrust hand, the coach's back. When he reached the dug- 
out, the rest of the team seemed sunk in reverie, contemplating the 
dirt on the tips of their spikes. 

"The wind was blowing in at me," Fox said, grumpily. 

No one answered. 

"Damn tough pitch to hit," Fox growled. 

Silence. 

Fox spat. "Sonsabitches," he said, reverently. 

Suddenly, the dugout exploded. Chicago players mobbed Fox, 
slapping his back and laughing. "Only 59 more to catch Ruth," 
Rivera said. 

"Want to feel the muscle?" asked Fox, flexing his arm. 

Yet this side of Fox the pressure player, the holler guy, the prac- 
tical joker, all of which are so much of his baseball makeup vanish 
completely when the season ends. There is another side of this man, 
and this begins to emerge when he leaves the bright lights of Chi- 
cago and goes back to the place where he was born, a quiet Pennsyl- 
vania town called St. Thomas. There, when the rough veneer that 
shields him from April to October melts away, Nellie Fox relaxes. 

St. Thomas, a town of some one thousand inhabitants, is set near 
the south-central border of Pennsylvania, approximately six miles 
west of Chambersburg and 20 miles north of Hagerstown, Maryland. 
Driving to visit Fox last winter, I left the Pennsylvania Turnpike at 
the Carlisle exit and proceeded south on Route 11 toward Cham- 
bersburg. This is Nellie Fox territory. "CHEW RED MAN TO- 
BACCO," roadside posters command. 

Fox's home stands just within the St. Thomas border on the road 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 99 

from Chambersburg. It is a modest brick house, with a large picture 
window, two bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen and 
finished cellar. "It's a little small for me and Joanne and the two 
girls," Fox said, "but you can't beat it for convenience. There's a 
barber shop across the street, a garage down the road and a grocery 
store the other way. What more could anyone ask for?" 

Fox sat in his living room, puffing on one of the dozen cigars he 
smokes each day. Without the baseball cap that hides his boyish 
crew-cut and the tobacco plug that contorts his easy grin, he looked 
young and mild. His voice was quiet and his manner pleasant. "This 
is the way to live/' he said. "I like it here." 

"Suppose you got a good business offer," I said. "Would you con- 
sider moving to Chicago?" 

"Not me," Fox said, firmly. "I have to spend six months a year 
there. That's plenty." 

Bonnie, Fox's n-year-old daughter, overheard the conversation. 
"Chicago's dirty," she said. 

Fox laughed. "I have to go to New York next month for a ban- 
quet," he said. "That's worse than Chicago. How can people live 
there? I can't stand New York." 

"Is that why you play so hard against the Yankees?" 

Fox flicked a large ash into an oversized ashtray. "That's part of 
it, I guess," he said. "But I've always disliked the Yankees, ever 
since I was a kid rooting for the Athletics* I always wanted to see 
the Yankees lose." 

Last year, finally, Fox saw his dream come true. How did it feel? 
"Damn good," he said. "But I can't live on last season. I've got to 
worry about this year." 

The telephone rang and Joanne, Fox's attractive wife, answered 
it. "For you, Nellie," she said. The caller wanted to know if Fox 
could speak at a father-and-son dinner in Chicago. "I'm sorry," 
Nellie said, "but I can't possibly make it. I've got to be in Louisville 
that week." 

Fox rubbed out his cigar and walked back to the living room. 
"I'll take you for a ride," he offered. "I'll show you what it's like 
here." 

We went outside and climbed into a green 1959 Cadillac, a gift 
from Chicago fans on Nellie Fox Night at Comiskey Park. Fox 
pulled out of the inclined driveway and turned onto the highway, 
heading toward the center of St. Thomas. (The center consists of 



ioo Dick Schaap 

three stares, a post office and a hotel that hasn't had a guest in years.) 
A horse-drawn wagon, closed in and painted entirely black, passed 
us on the opposite side of the road. "Amish people," Fox explained. 
"That's the way they live. Some o them have bought cars. They get 
old Fords and paint the whole thing black. Even the bumpers. It's 
funny." 

After we cruised past large tracts of apple and peach orchards, 
Fox turned onto a one-lane road leading up into the mountains that 
overlook St. Thomas. "I used to work out there," Fox said, nodding 
toward a huge apple orchard. "I picked apples. Friend of mine owns 
all this. We go hunting together. Up there. See." Fox pointed high 
up on North Mountain. "He's got a cabin. Only way to get there is 
by jeep. We hunt deer and rabbits and squirrels. I'm up there every 
day during the hunting season." 

Fox circled the orchard and started back toward the main road. 
We approached St. Thomas High School, where Nellie and Joanne 
had been classmates. "I hit about .350 on the varsity when I was a 
freshman," Fox said. He grinned. "Mostly singles." 

"Bid you ever imagine then," I said, "that someday you'd be the 
Most Valuable Player in the American League?" 

"Hell, no," Fox said, quickly. He shook his head, as though he 
still found it difficult to believe. 

We went through Chambersburg, then turned south toward 
Hagerstown. Every time we stopped for a traffic light, someone 
waved or called to Fox. "Hello, Nellie," shouted a man in a blue 
Chevrolet. "How'd the hunting go?" 

"Not bad," Fox said. "I got my deer finally." 

"Hi, Whip," said a policeman. "How are things?" 

"Fine, Hoss," said Fox. "Just fine. How about you?" 

"Couldn't be better." 

The orchards, the mountains, the townsmen all were familiar 
to Fox. Here, among the places and the people he knows best, Fox 
loses his toughness and his intensity. He becomes simply Nellie Fox, 
a local boy who made good and never let success swell his head. It is 
no wonder that Fox returns each year to St. Thomas, where he can 
balance the quiet hills of Pennsylvania against the noisy tension of 
a pennant race. Even in this, his off-season life, Fox is a throwback. 

The modern major leaguer has become a businessman first and an 
athlete second. He capitalizes on his name. His signature may flash 
in neon lights across the front of a steak house or a cocktail lounge 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 101 

or a plush motel. Or he may sell stocks and insurance. But Nellie 
Fox wants no part of high finance. He would rather hunt. His one 
non-baseball enterprise, his bowling alley, is a simple business, con- 
ducted among friends. There are no frills attached. 

Three miles south of Ghambersburg, Fox pulled up by a large 
cinderblock building, ornamented in front only by a large bowling 
pin. "Where's your name?" I asked. 

"Can't afford a sign yet," Fox said. "My partner and I'll get one 
soon. It'll say Nellie Fox Bowl." 

Only a few of the 20 bowling lanes, featuring automatic pin- 
setters and underground ball returns, were in use. The small lunch- 
eonette attached to the alleys was empty. "Business picks up at 
night," Fox said. 

While we were bowling, a man came into the alley and asked to 
speak to Fox. "Nellie," he said, "I'm from Harrisburg. Our club's 
having a dinner next month and we wondered if you could come up 
to talk. We'd sure appreciate it." 

Politely, Fox declined the invitation. He explained that he had a 
talk scheduled almost every night in January. Perhaps next year, he 
suggested. Fox was sorry. So was the man from Harrisburg. 

"I hate to make speeches," Fox said, when the visitor had left. "I 
get nervous. Scared. It's not so bad with kids. I just let them ask 
questions. That way, I don't have to make a regular speech." 

After a slow start, Fox bowled 199 in the third game and 187 in 
the fourth. We left the bowling alley and, in a light snowfall, Fox 
drove carefully back to his house. "Might as well go down in the 
cellar," he said. "It's comfortable there." 

A small semi-circular bar, with baseball bats set into the front, 
dominates Fox's finished basement. Behind the bar, Joanne has 
hung baseball pictures including Fox with Ted Williams, Fox 
with Aparicio and, the most recent one, Fox with comedian Joe E. 
Brown at the World Series. A case on the same wall contains two 
shotguns and three rifles, and the opposite wall is lined with trophies 
and plaques. It is a pleasant room. The furnishings and the trophies 
all cast a glow of success. 

Fox reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle bat. "See the 
model," he said. "Oi2, Doc Cramer's model. It's been damn good 
to me." 

Beneath the low cellar ceiling, Fox swung the bat gingerly. "I've 
been lucky," he said. "I've had lots of help. Cramer and Paul Rich- 



102 Dick Schaap 

ards. After Richards, I had Marty Marion as a manager and now 
I've got Al Lopez. All good men." 

Ty Cobb had said that Fox himself would be a good man as a 
manager. "Would you like being a manager?" I asked. 

Fox struck a match and lit another cigar. "I'm not thinking 
about it now/' he said. "I've got four-five good years left. Then I'll 
think about managing." 

The phone rang upstairs and Fox went to answer it. "Another 
banquet," he said, when he came down. "I must have turned down 
20 of them this week," 

Later, at dinner, I asked Joanne Fox if she had ever doubted that 
Nellie would succeed. "I used to worry," she said. "It looked so 
impossible. But I don't worry any more." 

We finished dinner and it was time for me to leave, "Did you 
ever consider giving up baseball?" I asked Fox. 

"Not really/' he said, seriously. "If I hadn't made the majors 
when I did, I might have thought about it. Life in the minors can 
be pretty miserable." 

Fox spread his strong hands on the table top. "When I started 
out in baseball," he said, "I set a goal for myself. I wanted to do 
well enough to own a house and two cars." Nellie grinned. "You've 
seen the house/' he said, "and right now I've got four cars. I bought 
two. The other two were gifts. I can't complain about anything." 

Neither can the White Sox. This, they know, is the complete 
ballplayer, What wins their respect is not entirely the toughness 
and the skill and the humor; what sets Fox apart is the way he 
takes charge of a game and lifts everybody else, the way he starts 
rallies and makes the clutch play, the way he reacts under pressure. 

Through the long lean years when the Sox fruitlessly chased 
New York, Fox was the one Chicago player who refused to be awed 
by the sight of Yankee pin-stripes. The tougher the competition, 
the better he performed. The Yankees almost invariably won the 
crucial games, but it wasn't Fox's fault. He was steady when every- 
one else faltered. 

Then last year, as the Yankee dynasty crumbled, Fox led his 
club past Cleveland to the pennant. On a team that won 35 games 
by a single run, Fox was the man, more often than anyone else, 
who supplied the decisive run. From the opening day of the season, 
when the first of his two 1959 home runs produced an extra-inning 
victory, Fox made a habit of turning failure into success, defeat 



The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf 103 

into triumph. He singled, he doubled, he bunted, he did anything 
to win. At one point nearly midway through the season, Nellie Fox, 
who was batting second and hitting mostly singles, was leading the 
White Sox in runs batted in. 

In the World Series, the White Sox, as a team, looked bad. Their 
brilliant pitching staff tired and even Aparicio, the premier fielder, 
misplayed ground balls. But Fox didn't let down. While the Dodgers 
were winning the Series, four games to two. Fox hit six singles and 
three doubles, batted .375 and fielded flawlessly. 

This is the essence of Nellie Fox, the complete ballplayer. The 
throwback. 



THE MANY MOODS OF MAUCH 

By Furman Bisher 

From The Atlanta Journal 

Copyright, , 1960, The Atlanta Journal 



There was a strikingly familiar photograph of Gene Mauch in 
the sports section of the Cincinnati Enquirer Sunday morning. He 
had Bill Jackowski, a National League umpire by the ear and 
was filling it full of complaint after his pitcher, Jack Meyer, had 
been called out on an interference play. 

It was a pose that Mauch struck so frequently in the year 1953, 
while employed as manager, second baseman and umpire baiter 
by the Atlanta Crackers. 

This bit of Saturday negotiation, however, was merely a rehearsal 
for what was to follow Sunday afternoon at Crosley Field. Under 
the management of Mauch, the Philadelphia Phillies and the Cin- 
cinnati Reds were concluding a four-game series with a double- 
header. 

On Saturday, the Phillies had broken a nine-game winning streak 
for the Reds, and on Sunday they were rubbing their noses in the 
dirt. As the eighth inning of the first game arrived, Philadelphia 
was leading Cincinnati, 9-1. 

Raul Sanchez, a Cuban as thin as a soda straw, was pitching in 
relief for the Reds. He walked Tony Taylor, John Callison and 
Ken Walters singled. A run had scored and Ted Lepcio came to 
bat. 

Sanchez, who is a sidearm pitcher, was wild with a curve and 
hit Lepcio on the rump. This loaded the bases. Cal Neeman, the 
catcher, was next and Sanchez hit him on the rump, too. Sanchez 
missed Joe Koppe, the shortstop, four times and walked him. 

Gene Conley, pitcher by summer, rebounder for the Boston 
Celtics by winter, was the next batter. He is long and lank and does 
not offer an inviting target, but Sanchez hit him, also on his in- 
conspicuous rump. 

Conley started slowly toward first base, and as he did, this figure 
wearing No. 32 on the back burst out of the Phillies' dugout and 

104 



The Many Moods of Mauch 105 

charged the mound. Then, sirs and mams, the damnedest baseball 
brawl you ever saw broke out. 

No. 32 was Gene Mauch, who had had a craw full, and who had 
gone to the aid of his defenseless six-foot-eight-inch pitcher. Fist 
fights broke out all over Crosley field and turned into wrestling 
matches. Ball players, coaches and umpires were wallowing all 
about the place in rare and sometimes ludicrous forms of combat, 
and it was at least 10 minutes before the riot subsided. 

Before it was over Billy Martin, former welterweight champion 
of the American League, was led off the field bloody and torn. 
Robin Roberts, customarily a disciple of peace, and Frank Robin- 
son, the Cincinnati first baseman, had squared off like Peter Jackson 
and Bob Fitzsimons. 

It was purely coincidental that before this game, Mauch had 
explained in deliberate and forthright manner his new devotion 
to patience, mildness and all forms of temperance. 

"The best thing that ever happened to me was that year of man- 
aging in Atlanta/' he said. "It took that to teach me how much I 
didn't know about baseball. Then I went back to playing for five 
more years to learn. 

"I found out, for one thing, that you can't chew out a bunch of 
Double A Ball players because they don't play like big leaguers. I 
learned to sit back and watch some before I made a move." 

Now in the Phillies' clubhouse, a somewhat sheepish and a some- 
what serious Mauch met a rather amused press with a dour counte- 
nance. 

"Well, what would you do?" he asked. "They knock down three 
out of four of your guys and the umpires say nothing to the pitcher. 
The next time they throw at the head and they hurt somebody bad. 
How much you gonna take of this?" 

In his short time as a major league manager, Mauch has gradu- 
ally won respect complimentary to a man of his position. "It wasn't 
sudden and easy," Sandy Grady, the Philadelphia columnist said. 
"For the first two or three days he didn't say much. He'd just look 
at you every time you asked a question, like you were a subversive 
agent." 

Of course the conditions under which Mauch became manager 
of the Phillies were rather ripe with involvement. Eddie Sawyer 
developed a deep-seated grouch against the Phillies and gave in to 
a violent urge to get out the day after the season opened. 



io6 Furman Bisher 

That night, in a motel room in Pompano Beach, Fla., Mauch's 
telephone rang him out of a deep sleep. He had the Minneapolis 
ball club there for an exhibition series with Dallas. 

"It was John Quinn," Gene said. "He said, 'A friend of mine 
wants to know if you're interested in managing a major league club/ 

"He said, 'Are you interested; I want to know that first.' 

"I said, 'Who is it, the Phillies?' 

"That's the way it happened. I took the job right there." 

There was a story the other day that Mauch had called on his 
athletes, who have a reputation for playboyism, and laid down the 
law. That varies a bit from the official version, 

"I didn't want to walk in here new and start off with a set of rules 
that might be needed," Mauch said. "I wanted to see for myself 
what was necessary and what wasn't, see what kind of fellows these 
guys were. 

"I found out and then I made up my rules and I posted them, 
that's what took place. Now they know what I expect of them." 

Patient, temperate, reserved, mild, objective, humanitarian, all 
of these virtues possessed our young man until Sunday afternoon in 
the eighth inning of the first game. Then the hell with all that. He 
wasn't going to take nothing off nobody no more. 

He is still learning and this was one of those lessons. 



FOOTBALL 



THE EAGLES FLY BACK 
By Joseph M. Sheehan 

From The New York Times 
Copyright, , 1960, The New York Times 



The National Football League championship, as well as baseball's 
supreme crown, now reposes in the Commonwealth of Pennsyl- 
vania. 

With a comeback worthy of the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Philadel- 
phia Eagles defeated the Green Bay Packers, 17-13, in the title play- 
off today. A sellout crowd of 67,325 saw the game at Franklin Field. 

Coach Buck Shaw's Eastern Conference champions beat the fav- 
ored Packers at the Packers' game running. The normally pass- 
minded Eagles went overhead only once in driving 32 yards in 
seven plays to score the winning touchdown at 5:21 of the final 
period. 

Ted Dean, a fleet, powerful rookie halfback from nearby Radnor, 
Pa., slammed across for the deciding points from 5 yards out on a 
sweep around Green Bay's right end behind a crushing block by 
Gerry Huth. 

Dean had set the winning drive in motion by sprinting 58 yards 
to Green Bay's sjQryard line with a kick-off. That followed the 
touchdown that put the Packers in the lead for the second time. 

Dominant in the early going, Green Bay scored on field goals of 
20 and 23 yards by Paul Hornung in the first two periods. 

On the pinpoint passing of their great Norm Van Brocklin, the 
Eagles struck back late in the second quarter. A 35-yard pass from 
Van Brocklin to Tommy McDonald moved Philadelphia ahead, 
7-6, at 8:08 of the second period. 

Before the half ended, Van Brocklin also had passed his team 
into position for a 1 5-yard field goal by Bobby Walston. 

The Eagles' embattled defense, which checked the Packers in 
scoring territory five times, held firm through the third period. Then 

107 



io8 Joseph M. Sheehan 

it yielded at 1:53 of ^ last quarter ta a 7-y ard touchdown pass 
from Bart Starr to Max McGee. 

Philadelphia's offensive unit quickly recouped on Dean's touch- 
down. The Eagle defenders hung grimly on the rest of the way, with 
the clock as an ally. They stopped a last-ditch Packer drive on the 
Eagle lo-yard line as time ran out. 

The result sent the partisan onlookers into a state of delirium. 
The enthused Eagle adherents leveled the goal posts in a jiffy as 
soon as the police had lifted their guard and still were whooping 
it up in the nearby streets two hours later. 

The game started at noon, earlier than usual for a professional con- 
test. This was done to allow for a sudden-death overtime, which was 
planned had regulation time ended with the score tied. Franklin 
Field has no lights. 

It was Philadelphia's first National League championship since 
Greasy Neale's Eagles of 1949 defeated the Los Angeles Rams, 14-0, 
in the second of two consecutive title victories. 

Coach Vince Lombardi's Packers, whose Western Conference vic- 
tory was as great a surprise as that of the Eagles in the East, had all 
the best of the statistics. Green Bay outgained Philadelphia from 
scrimmage, 401 yards to 296, and piled up twenty-two first downs 
against thirteen. 

With their powerful running game, which accounted for 223 yards, 
the Packers controlled the ball for long intervals. But they lacked 
decisiveness when opportunity beckoned. The Eagles, who ran only 
forty-eight scrimmage plays to the Packers' seventy-seven, did the 
better job of the cashing in on their chances. 

Having Van Brocklin on its side helped Philadelphia immeasura- 
bly. The 34-year-old quarterback, who confirmed his decision to re- 
tire, has had better days passing, but he called a magnificent game. 

Sharing honors with Van Brocklin, Dean, McDonald and Walston, 
who also place-kicked 2 extra points, was Chuck Bednarik, the 35- 
year-old Eagle center. Doubling on offense and defense, he was on 
the field every scrimmage play. 

Among other things, Bednarik knocked Paul Hornung, Green 
Bay's league scoring leader, out of action with a rib-rattling tackle 
early in the third period; recovered a fumble that stopped a pronuV 
ing Packer march in the fourth period and made the game-ending 
tackle that assured victory for the Eagles. 

The weather was fine sparkling clear and surprisingly warm, with 



The Eagles Fly Back 109 

the temperature ranging up to 48 degrees. The field was a bit treach- 
erous, though, frozen hard underneath and soft on top, with muddy 
spots where icy patches had melted. 

The Eagles won the toss, elected to receive and promptly put them- 
selves in a deep hole. On their first scrimmage play, Van Brocklin 
flipped a lateral to Bill Barnes, who had flared to the left. The ball 
bounced off Barnes' reaching hands into those of Bill Quinlan, Green 
Bay's defensive right end. 

This break set up the Packers on Philadelphia's 14. Jim Taylor, 
Green Bay's admirable fullback, whose line-cracking activities netted 
105 yards, smashed to the 9 on the first play. But the Eagles dug in, 
held three more rushes to 3 yards and took the ball on downs at 
their 6. 

Almost immediately, the Eagles gave away the ball again. On the 
third play, Barnes, after breaking loose for what would have been a 
first down, fumbled when tackled. Bill Forester recovered for Green 
Bay on the Philadelphia 22. 

Two power thrusts by Hornung and Taylor produced a Packer 
first down on the 12. Then Hornung ripped through to the 8. But 
Green Bay went offside on its next rush, and two passes by Starr 
missed connections. So the Packers settled for a field goal by Hornung 
from the 20. 

Late in the first period, Green Bay got rolling from its 37 on a 
march that carried to Philadelphia's 17 at the start of the second 
quarter. But after Taylor had reached the 12, the Packers again were 
guilty of an offside. Again two passes failed, and again Hornung 
kicked a field goal, from the 23. 

On this movement, the Packers missed a glowing chance to score 
a touchdown on the first play of the second quarter. Hornung, on a 
halfback option pass, failed to get the ball to Boyd Dowler, in the 
clear behind the last Packer defender. The underthrown pass was 
knocked down. 

A few minutes later, Van Brocklin had the same chance and didn't 
fail. The elusive McDonald broke loose from his right flanker post, 
and Van pitched a strike to him for a 22-yard gain. On the next play, 
the same combination clicked again for a 35-yard touchdown. 

The next time the Eagles had the ball, Van Brocklin hung a 41- 
yard pass on a handle for Pete Retzlaff. This put Philadelphia on 
Green Bay's 33. Dean picked up 3 yards, Van Brocklin missed once, 
then hit Dean for a 22-yard gain to the Packer 8. 



no Joseph M. Sheehan 

Green Bay balked Van Brocklin's next three passes, but the Eagles 
were in position to take a 1 5-yard field goal by Walston that stretched 
their lead to 10-6. 

From the kick-off that followed, the Packers roared 72 yards to a 
first down on Philadelphia's 7. But time was running out in the half. 
After Starr had failed to gain when trapped behind his line on an 
attempted pass, the Packers tried a field goal. Hornung's boot from 
the 12 was wide to the left. 

Early in the third period, the Packers, on 15-yard runs by Hornung 
and Taylor, reached Philadelphia's 34. But, after yielding 5 yards to 
Hornung's next thrust, the Eagles clamped down and took the ball on 
downs just inside their 25. On this sequence Hornung's shoulder was 
reinjured. Except to kick the point after Green Bay's touchdown, he 
played no more. 

From this point, the Eagles swiftly moved to Green Bay's 5, with 
passes by Van Brocklin to McDonald and Walston accounting for 
most of the yardage. But on second down, John Symank ended the 
threat by intercepting a pass by Van Brocklin in the end zone. 

An enterprising play by McGee got Green Bay started on the 
touchdown drive that followed. After the interception, the Packers 
were stalled on their 20. 

Back to punt on fourth down with 10 yards to go, McGee spotted 
the Eagle defense dropping back and ran instead. He raced 35 yards 
to Philadelphia's 45 before being hauled down. 

A pass by Starr to Gary Knafelc moved the ball to the Eagle 34 
as the third period ended. From there, Tom Moore, standing in for 
Hornung, and Taylor advanced to the 7. Then Starr switched to the 
air and hit McGee, who cut in sharply from the left flank, with a 
perfect pass on the goal line. 

Philadelphia retaliated explosively. Taking the kick-off on his 3, 
Dean raced back to Green Bay's 39, where Willie Wood fought 
through two blockers to knock him out of bounds. 

Green Bay was penalized 7 yards for defensive holding on Phila- 
delphia's first play, a pass by Van Brocklin that never got airbound. 
From the 32, Van Brocklin crossed the Packer defense by calling run- 
ning plays. 

Hitting hard on off-tackle plays, Dean and Barnes punched out a 
first down on the 20. The Packer line then spilled Van Brocklin for 
a 7-yard loss. He recouped it with a couple of yards to spare on a 
screen pass to Barnes. 



The Eagles Fly Back in 

Then the cagey Philadelphia signal-caller caught the Packers off 
guard again. On third down with 8 to go, they were looking for a 
pass. He sent Barnes off tackle and the stumpy halfback slashed and 
squirmed to a first down on the 10. 

From there, Dean hit off tackle to the 5 and then circled end for 
the score. Huth's crushing block got him around the corner but he 
still had to drive through a couple of tacklers on his own. 

Green Bay moved past midfield from the following kick-off, but 
on-the-spot Bednarik was there to grab the ball when McGee fumbled 
a pass from Starr on Philadelphia's 48. 

Nothing was accomplished by either side in the next couple of ex- 
changes. Then, with i minute 15 seconds to go, the Packers aroused 
themselves. From their 35, they stormed to Philadelphia's 22 on 
Starr's passing to various receivers. 

But they couldn't break anyone completely loose and there was 
time for just one more play. Again Starr had no free deep receiver. 
So he threw short just over the line to Taylor, 

Bednarik quickly clamped the Green Bay fullback in a bear hug 
and, with the assistance of another tackier, wrestled him to the 
ground on the 10. That was the ball game. 



BOMBSHELL IN BALTIMORE 

By George Leonard 

From The Nashville Banner 

Copyright, , 1960, The Nashville Banner 



I suppose I'm like millions of other professional football fans 
about the country. It matters little who wins. It's the spectacular and 
skillful way they play the game in the National Football League. 
WeVe long since ceased to be flabbergasted by the amazing offensive 
deeds of the hardy competitors. 

Take Lenny Moore's diving, sprawling, rolling catch of Johnny 
Unitas' gS-yard pass in the end zone at Baltimore last Sunday. 

There were 14 seconds to play. The world's champion Colts had 
successfully climaxed an 8o-yard race against the clock. The referee 
threw up his arms in the touchdown signal. Thousands in the crowd 
of 58,808, beside themselves with joy, swarmed around Moore al- 
most the instant he got up snuggling the ball. Big Daddy Lipscomb, 
Baltimore's mammoth tackle, danced a jig. The Colts had over- 
hauled those upstartish Detroit Lions, 15-13. 

One of the great pass catches of all time? Had to be. But a stun- 
ning turn of events? Hardly. The pros are forever doing things like 
this. 

What followed, however, was utterly preposterous. It overpowered 
the emotions. The multitude in Baltimore, yelling madly seconds 
before, was hushed and uncomprehending. It left a blase television 
audience gasping. 

I haven't shouted from a press box all fall. I did in my living 
room last Sunday. Had to. Couldn't take it silently. 

You know what happened. You're probably still talking and 
thinking about it. Wondering how in this world the Lions pierced 
Baltimore's defense to score on a 65-yard pass play from Earl Morrall 
to Jim Gibbons. And win, 20-15, on the last play of the game. 

This game had a profound effect on me. Days afterward, I decided 
I must call Gibbons at his home in Detroit and talk to him about 
it. Was the play which produced the most fantastic finish football 
has ever known conceived in the huddle by Morrall and roughly 



112 



Bombshell in Baltimore **3 

finger-diagrammed on the ground, as I'd read in one paper? How 
many Baltimore defenders were playing deep? What pattern had 
Gibbons cut? Was the play designed to go all the way? etc. 

I found him still dangling from a cloud. 

"It couldn't happen, of course," Gibbons said. "But it did. It was 
a once-in-a-lifetime thing. 

"Naturally, it was disheartening to us to see our all-out effort 
seemingly ruined by Moore's tremendous catch. We knew it would 
take a miracle. We're believers in miracles now. 

"After the kickoff return we had just 10 seconds. Our coach, 
George Wilson, left it all up to our quarterback, Earl Morrall. Earl 
called the play. It was a play we've been using all season long. 

"I line up close at left end. The other end, Gail Cogdill, splits 
wide. Hoppy (Hopalong Cassady) is in the slot. 

"I go straight down about 15 yards, then cut over to my right and 
start looking, Cogdill goes down and angles left. Hoppy heads 
straight for the goal. 

"None of us ever dreamed the play would go for a touchdown, 
especially with the Colts playing six men in the secondary. We had 
used all our timeouts. Actually, our plan was to hit with a 20- or 
^5-yard pass, jump up as quickly as possible after the tackle and let 
our kicker, Jim Martin, try to boot one about half the length of the 

field. 

"It was at least 50 to i we'd never get off another play, even with- 
out huddling. But it looked like our only chance. 

"As we came out of the huddle," Earl said, 'When you break 
across the middle, I'm letting you have it. You should be open.' He 
figured the Colts would be guarding the sidelines, thinking we 
would try to run out of bounds to stop the clock. 

"I was surprised first that I wasn't bumped at the line. And 
second, that after I caught the ball at midfield and looked around, 
I suddenly saw I could go the distance. It was sort of a shock. Hoppy 
was nearby. Two, maybe three, Colts had dropped off on Cogdill. 

"It was a nice pass, a little high maybe. But I took it in stride, 
turned and lit out for the goal line. Ken Webb knocked Bob Boyd 
down, although they tell me the block may not have been needed. 
I understand one of their players said Johnny Sample and Andy 
Nelson must have run into each other in the secondary. I guess it'll 
be hard to reconstruct the play exactly until we see the movies." 

The game must have ended as Gibbons, a latter-day "untouch- 



114 George Leonard 

able" was crossing the white stripes about 20 or 25 yards from 
"home." 

A little pack of Lions made more noise than 58,808 Baltimore 
folks gathered in the huge stadium nicknamed "a big outdoor 
pressure cooker." 

The unbelievable had been piled atop the incredible. Nothing 
like it has ever been seen on a gridiron. 



FOOTBALL'S TAKING OVER 
By Roger Kahn 

From Sport 
Copyright, , 1960, Roger Kahn 



The conflict between baseball and football is usually described as 
a friendly rivalry, which means that neither side has ever attacked 
the other with tear gas. There is only a certain amount of money to 
be made in big-time sports and the one thing that unites the big 
baseball promoter with the big football promoter is that both would 
like to make all of it. 

Until fairly recently, baseball men had matters and gate re- 
ceipts pretty much their own way. Discussing a pitching prospect 
who liked to play football, Fresco Thompson, of the Dodger front 
office, could remark, "What does that young man want, a contract 
or a limp?" Charlie Dressen, the new manager of the Milwaukee 
Braves, could mutter, "Football? Yeah, I played that when I was a 
kid/' Baseball men could afford to be smug because their sport, de- 
spite sporadic challenges from gin rummy and girl-watching, was 
generally accepted as the American national game. 

I remember once watching a professional football team called the 
Brooklyn Dodgers perform before a small group of relatives. As I 
watched, I developed a sense of outrage that this team had dared 
appropriate the name of a big-league baseball club. Big-league 
names belonged only in baseball. It was my opinion, then, that foot- 
ball would have to progress spectacularly and baseball would have 
to bungle ceaselessly for this situation to change. 

What has happened in the intervening years? Offhand, I'd say 
football has progressed spectacularly and baseball has bungled cease- 
lessly. For now, as such knowledgeable baseball men as Branch 
Rickey admit, the situation has changed radically. Football is taking 
over. 

Defining a national game is a tricky business because any man 
can make up his own definition. Is it dollars spent? Then horse 
racing leads by far. Is it number of spectators? Basketball buffs, 
counting down to the last high school cheer leader, offer the biggest 



u6 Roger Kahn 

number. Is it intensity of interest? Then, perhaps, the national sport 
is skiing. At least, IVe never met a ski instructor who didn't limp 
over and insist: "You must try skiing. It's easier than walking." 

None of these definitions is quite satisfactory. Instead, it seems to 
me that the national game is simply the sport which makes the 
greatest impact on the largest number of people. In America, base- 
ball's impact has been unique. Its heroes, Ruth and Cobb, Dean 
and DiMaggio, Williams and Musial, have been men everyone 
recognized. Its language, "strikeouts," and "get to first base," has 
been understood by small boys and old ladies. People everywhere 
know at least a little bit about baseball. It has been a game they 
have liked, a game they have trusted, a game that has been a part of 
life in the United States. 

Consider a scene recalled for us by John R. Tunis, a discerning 
observer of American sports for half a century, in his book, "The 
American Way in Sport." 

"Then Fred Clarke, who felt Bill Dinneen was throwing at his 
head, bunted down the first base line, intending to spike him. This 
was a trick for which he was celebrated. 

"But LaChance (the first baseman) was ready. He raced in, let 
the ball roll past, and as Clarke went by, picked it up and threw 
hard at his back. Players instantly swarmed from the benches on to 
the diamond, fans broke through the ropes, and soon a mob ten feet 
deep surrounded the diamond. It was half an hour before the um- 
pires could force the fans behind the ropes in center field and re- 
sume the game. 

"When Dinneen struck out Wagner at the end, the fans tumbled 
on to the field. They cheered, shrieked, hoisted up the players and 
paraded round and round the field. It was more than an hour before 
the defeated Pirates could get through to their carriages waiting out 
on Huntington Avenue." 

Tunis was writing about the conclusion of the 1903 World Series, 
the first Series ever. In broad outline the scene describes baseball 
1903, baseball 1923 and baseball today, although Tunis points out 
that fans hoisting up players after a Series game these days might 
be arrested by ball park cops for assault and battery. 

The important point is that baseball has been stirring American 
sports fans for better than half a century. Football in 1903 was a 
dull, brutal, pushing contest popular among Ivy Leaguers but 
known only slightly to the masses. In fact, it wasn't until 1906, when 



Football's Taking Over 117 

President Theodore Roosevelt threatened to abolish football by 
executive order unless brutal play was stopped, that football ever 
made national headlines. The big-time college football we now have 
did not exist before the 19205. The brilliant appealing professional 
game did not finally take hold until after World War II. 

In 1934, a franchise in the National Football League cost $10,000, 
today's going price for one fair offensive lineman. Teams traveled 
by bus, and whenever the Philadelphia Eagles had to play the 
Giants, they made the last leg of their trip to the Polo Grounds by 
subway, carrying uniforms, footballs and equipment on their backs. 
Pro football was a business of one-day stands, with no guarantee 
that fans would show up. 

Baseball? Well in 1934, the country was unhappy at the waning 
of Babe Ruth's powers, was coming to appreciate the skills of Lou 
Gehrig and Carl Hubbell, was laughing at the Dodgers and was 
awed by Commissioner Landis, who seemed to embody all the basic 
virtues under his great, white mane. 

Today college football remains basically what it was in the 19308, 
a big, successful sport. The change in the baseball-football balance 
is more dramatic on the professional level. Five baseball franchises, 
almost a third of the major leagues, have suddenly turned portable. 
After 50 years during which big-league franchises were as stationary 
as City Hall, four have moved with bill collectors in pursuit. The 
fifth, the Dodgers, moved because their president saw a chance to 
make a killing. 

The Washington Senators are a sorry credit risk. The Cleveland 
Indians, although revitalized by Frank Lane, are less than stable. 
Overall, during the last decade, major-league attendance has moved 
down steadily, with only infrequent upward spurts, and more sig- 
nificant the game has lost stature. When a pro football franchise 
went for 10,000, it didn't look like an impressive deal. When a pro 
baseball franchise floats like a crap game, it isn't impressive, either. 
The old stability which baseball built up over half a century is 
wavering. 

The supply of stars seems to have been cut off, and the old talent 
breeding grounds, the minor leagues, are drying up. Who will re- 
place Ted Williams and Stan Musial? There isn't anyone in sight. 

Baseball is still popular, as well it should be, but it is becoming 
a game rather than The Game. There are no super stars, less color, 
fewer fanatic fans. If baseball prospers in new territory, say, Los 



ii8 Roger Kahn 

Angeles, it prospers as a carnival, not as baseball. Big-league games 
are new to LA, but what attracts most of the customers is not the 
quality of baseball, it's the novelty. 

Professional football, meanwhile, has arrived. With the possible 
exception of the Chicago Cardinals, every franchise in the National 
Football League seems solid, and some the Giants, the Rams, the 
Browns, the Bears and the Colts are 24 karat. The profootball stars 
are famous and becoming more so. The fans are intense enough to 
riot and informed enough to applaud the work of the defensive 
platoons. For eight consecutive years, attendance in the National 
Football League has increased. This is the hot sport, the sport every- 
one seems to talk about and follow. Football is way in. Baseball is a 
little bit out. The suggestion is not that football has caught baseball 
yet, but simply that it is catching baseball fast. 

Branch Rickey's endorsement of this suggestion begins with a 
prayer of sorts. The Rickey voice thunders like a preacher's as he 
says: 

"God bless me and my wife 
My son John and his wife 
Us four and no more 
Amen." 

Shedding his pulpit manner, Rickey explains, "That sums up the 
attitude of organized baseball, and that's why this game, which I 
love, is facing such dark times ahead." He sighs and continues, "The 
game has remained static for 59 years. Why, the same names once 
hurled at Ban Johnson when the American League was formed are 
being hurled at me today. The very same names, mind you. I was 
there/' 

Rickey's great eyebrows knit into a horizontal exclamation point. 
"We are a nation of change," he rumbles on. "To resist change is to 
perish, and if there is one policy that is held all through organized 
baseball, and by its commissioner, then that policy is no change." 
The pace quickens. "Football has changed," Rickey says, "and foot- 
ball is catching baseball. Still there is no change." 

Now comes the hushed, dramatic whisper that would do a classic 
actor proud. "Baseball may die," Rickey murmurs, almost like a 
man in pain. "My only hope is that I die before it does." 

We will cut Mr. Rickey off here for two reasons. First, his con- 
clusion, that the Continental League will remedy most of baseball's 



Football's Taking Over 119 

ills, is subject to serious question. Second, it spoils the dramatic 
efiect. 

As a skillful promoter, Branch Rickey will do a great many things 
to ease the birth pangs of the Continental League, but it is rash to 
assume he would knock baseball to make a pitch. On baseball, 
Rickey speaks the truth as he sees it, and one of the things he sees is 
this: Baseball, by failing to expand for sixty years, while the country 
expanded, lost drive and momentum until it began to contract. He 
believes it is not too late, that expansion through the Continental 
League may yet salvage things. Whether you think it is too late or 
not, you will find it hard to challenge the first portion of his argu- 
ment. 

Standing pat, failing to add new teams, was a baseball failure of 
60 years. The great television debacle has only taken a decade. 
When TV men first showed up at ball club offices they held some- 
what frayed hats in somewhat nervous hands, TV was small time; 
few people had sets. What they wanted from baseball was help. 
Could baseball please allow the wonderful show that was a ball 
game to be televised? Here was some money in advance and there 
would be more. 

"Money?" said baseball executives, as one man. "Come on in. Care 
for a drink? Where do I sign?" 

So it was done, in Brooklyn and in New York and in Chicago and 
in Boston, and once done it could not be undone. A strong and will- 
ing baseball commissioner might have formulated a firm, sensible 
policy toward TV. "Let's only televise a few games," he might have 
said, or, better, "Let's wait a few years and see what happens." 

But there was no policy. No one wanted to wait. Could television 
hurt attendance? Nonsense, the television men said, it would create 
more and more new fans. 

As the TV boys predicted, television has created new fans, but, as 
few baseball men foresaw, the fans are a curious breed. In their 
living rooms, they see the pitcher bite his tongue before he throws, 
but they don't ever feel a sense of wonder. It used to be an event to 
go to a ball game. Now the ball game comes to you. It used to be a 
challenge to get in to an important game. Now, with the important 
game on television back home, the fans forget the challenge and 
complain about parking problems at the ball park. A whole genera- 
tion is growing up seeing baseball on television and turning it off 
when the game becomes dull or when Perry Como is due on another 



120 Roger Kahn 

channel. Baseball has been swallowed up by television, and, as wit- 
ness Boston and New York, television income has failed to measure 
up to the lost gate receipts. 

Once, when the Yankees blacked out one game as an experiment, 
a vast crowd turned out. "They were surprised," wrote the late Rud 
Rennie, "to discover that the grass was green and that there were 
nine men on the field at all times." For, in addition to disrupting 
attendance and the old development of baseball interest, television 
has created a new game. With a good cameraman this game resem- 
bles baseball. With a poor cameraman, the commercials are the 
most exciting part. 

During the last World Series, Jim Rivera of the White Sox saved 
the fifth game for Chicago with a wonderful running catch. Sitting 
in the Coliseum as Charlie Neal came to bat, one felt the sun beat- 
ing down, a reminder that outfielders had been losing flies all day. 
One saw the base-runners in one glance, the Scoreboard in another, 
reminders that this was a tense one-run game. Then Neal swung and 
one glimpsed the runners in motion as the ball sailed out. Could 
Landis get to it? No, the ball was too far over in right. Could Rivera 
reach it? No, the ball was hit too deeply and too sharply. And what 
about the sun? Then Rivera was running, running, running, seem- 
ing almost to overtake the ball as he threw up his hands and made 
an over-the-shoulder catch. That was how the play looked in LA. 

Recently, the play was re-run on TV. Neal swung, the ball van- 
ished, a midget was sprinting in the outfield and the next thing you 
knew the midget turned out to be Jim Rivera (the announcer said) 
and that white dot in his glove was the ball. The preference here is 
for baseball over football as a spectator sport. But not as a television 
sport. Televised baseball is dreary and will be dreary until someone 
invents a 4oo-foot picture tube. There is just no other way to cap- 
ture the excitement of a catch such as Rivera's. 

Baseball today is a game with lifeless leadership, with too few 
stars, with the minor leagues so weakened that prospects of future 
stars are slim. It may sound wrong to assert that a game which can 
draw 92,000 people into a misshapen arena to watch a World Series 
is in trouble. But the evidence is there. For seven years interest has 
been stimulated artificially by the expedient of franchise shifting. 
Like any hypo, this works for a time, then begins to lose effect. Base- 
ball as it is now run cannot hold interest in the old places and so is 
moving to new ones. This is hardly a healthy state. 



Football's Taking Over 121 

In pro football there is tremendous vitality. The game is newer, 
more alert and has prospered both through merit and good fortune. 
After World War II, you may remember, a league called the All- 
America Conference was established as a rival of the older NFL* 
There followed a small, stimulating war. 

Player salaries fairly exploded. Where once a man might play pro 
football for $150 a game, driving a truck in between Sundays, he 
could now bargain with two clubs and prosper. No franchise was 
secure. In New York the Giants were pressed by a team called the 
Yanks; in Los Angeles the Rams had to compete with the Dons. 
These were hard times in which to own a football club, and with 
the wild bidding for players and the expenses of promotion, hun- 
dreds of thousands of dollars were lost. But out of the turmoil came 
the NFL of today, bolstered by Cleveland, San Francisco and later 
Baltimore, the strongest franchises in the rival league. For five years 
it was a case of the survival of the fittest. The teams surviving today 
all proved that they were fit. 

When the late Bert Bell took over as commissioner he was a man 
of ideas and action. He gave each player in the league his home tele- 
phone number. "If you've got any problems," he said, "call me." 
(Paul Hornung of Green Bay did last fall to ask, "What kind of guy 
is Vince Lombardi, our new coach?") Bell handled major problems 
as surely as he handled small ones and when television men arrived, 
the NFL was ready. 

"Why give the product away?" Bell reasoned. "Let's just televise 
the road games and make them come out to see us when we're 
home." 

"Televising home games will build interest," said a television 
man, which meant, "When we televise road games the cost of leasing 
all that cable eats into our profits." 

Bell and the owners were adamant and the television people 
knuckled under. Teams televised their road games, sometimes even 
over small networks, but when they played at home, the local screens 
showed nothing but old movies. According to one old NFL hand, 
every team in the league now earns between $100,000 and $200,000 a 
year from road TV, all without the cost of a single fan. 

Footbairs good fortune is that the game televises beautifully. 
Action is confined and though an occasional long pass or a punt may 
be confusing, the game overall comes through vividly. There is, of 
course, the foolishness of not showing injuries or fights. "Profnis is 



122 Roger Kahn 

a little shaken up out there/' the football announcer says and the 
camera swings away from Profnis' inert body to show a cumulus 
cloud behind the Scoreboard. We then have to read a newspaper to 
find out if Profnis ever came to. But these are minor quibbles. Pro 
football has handled TV sensibly and the game is ideal for TV 
watchers. Football over baseball here by two points. 

I don't mean to slight the college game, which is a big^and thriv- 
ing sport, but I think it is the pro success which is most important. 
One problem in college football is that a star flashes briefly, brightly, 
then expires. Just when a fan gets to know all his mannerisms, he 
graduates, or runs out of eligibility, and at 23, he's through. The old 
baseball stars were around for a long time. 

Pro football holds the remedy. Johnny Unitas, a big star now, 
will be a big star ten years from now if his protection holds up. We 
are coming swiftly to a time when pro football stars will be fully as 
renowned as big-league ballplayers because, like ballplayers, they 
will remain in headlines for a long time. A Jimmy Brown fan will 
have a full decade to study and admire his favorite. This could be 
all football needs to catch baseball. Names make sports and football 
is developing names. 

There is one final aspect. Nations, like individuals, tire of certain 
games. Perhaps, as a nation, we are a little tired of baseball. Count- 
ing spring training, the season lasts for almost eight months, almost 
twice as long as the full run of pro football. Baseball has given 
us its Babe Ruth, its John McGraw, its Connie Mack and, finally, 
its Jackie Robinson. Perhaps now we feel that we have seen all 
there is to see of baseball, that the game is offering us new personali- 
ties not quite as good as the old ones and new pennant races that 
remind us of older, better ones. The National League has been in 
business for almost 80 years. In the sweep of time a sport comes and 
flourishes and almost always goes. Perhaps baseball's greatest 
flourishing lies behind. 

Anyone predicting the imminent death of baseball is either drunk 
or has been out of the country. But can anyone argue well that the 
sport still retains its old grip on the imagination of Americans? 
There is unquestionably a stillness at second base. 

The noise is coming from the football fields. It may be the sports 
sound of the future. 



STORY-BOOK FINISH 
By Jerry Nason 

From The Boston Globe 
Copyright, , 1960, The Boston Globe 



Joe Bellino wrote a story-book finish to his fantastic regular season 
football career today by rescuing a harassed Navy team from Army's 
furious assault with a 45-yard pass interception run from his own 
goal line in the final minute of play. 

Navy's dearly earned 17 to 12 victory over the grimly attacking 
Cadets was thus preserved by the indomitable Winchester, Mass., 
halfback after he had almost squandered it in collaboration with 
Harry Dietz on a fumbled handoff, recovered by Army at the Navy 
15 with five minutes remaining. 

Bellino scored Navy's first touchdown, his i8th of the season, 
but twice erupted on vitally important non-scoring runs 58 yards 
from his goal line in the first quarter and his game-saving 45-yard 
interception run in the last quarter. 

Both contributions saved Navy from incalculable embarrassment, 
put Navy into the Orange Bowl at Miami on New Year's Day, and 
sky-rocketed the spectacular Bay Stater onto the All American foot- 
ball teams. 

A shook-up throng of 98,615 in Philadelphia Stadium, and a TV 
audience of an estimated 30 millions palpitated through this rock- 
and-roll thriller. Navy took a 17 to o lead to intermission and re- 
turned to yield to 79 and 84-yard Army scoring inarches in the third 
and fourth periods. 

Navy was on the ropes, shattered but game, when Joe the Jet 
pilfered Tom Blanda's long throw at the Navy goal and fled 45 
yards up the field to repel all boarders for the day. 

When the day and the deeds were done Bellino emerged as the 
greatest ball runner in Navy's history. After being warmly em- 
braced by his mom, Mrs. Sarah Bellino, he was swept off the cleat- 
chewn turf on the shoulders of ecstatic Winchesterites with mid- 
shipmen lending enthusiastic assistance. 

Bellino was sent back into the contest, joining the Middies' second 

123 



1^4 Jerry Nason 

unit to slash and drive four yards to Navy's first score at 12:23 of 
the opening quarter. 

The breach in Army's vicious defensive alignment was provided 
by Vern Von Sydow's recovery of an Al Rushatz fumble on the 
Army 24-yard line. 

Navy widened the gap in the second period to 9 to o on Greg 
Mather's second field goal attempt of the game a 27-yarder. Navy 
ran it up to 17 to o when Hal Spooner reached end Jim Luper with 
a lo-yard scoring pass with only sixteen seconds unexpired in the 
first half. 

Army's greater muscle, however, took a heavy toll among the 
tiring Middies. The last 30 minutes were devoted to the Cadets 
attacking relentlessly and Navy tiring fast. 

The Cadets drove from the kickoff for 79 yards in 14 plays with 
Al Rushatz scoring on a short tackle dive. They extended an 84- 
yard march from the third to fourth quarter when Rushatz again 
dove over tackle. Navy somehow survived the final 10 cliff-hanging 
moments. 

The play with which the stutter-and-spurt running genius of 
Bellino was indelibly stamped on this violently contested football 
game was his 58-yarder from the lip of Navy's goal, where Paul 
Stanley had boomed an Army punt out of bounds midway through 
the opening quarter. 

In a game so tensely played that nerves twanged like fiddle 
strings, this blow would have prostrated an ordinary football team. 

But Navy is no ordinary team. It has Bellino in its backfield 
and it was Joe they called up in the clutch, the ball only a yard 
from their own goal, the pressure heavy and he dove his right tackle 
like an atomic missile fired from Polaris. 

Sid Driscoll the right tackle from Waltham, and the guard beside 
him, John Hewitt, forged an aperture, and Bellino went through 
it whooosh. 

Then he really exhibited his fabulous stop-and-go ability in an 
open field, sliding from one line backer sidestepping a defensive half- 
back, goose-stepping out of the arms of a third. 

If he was caught from behind for the first time in his career on a 
football field, it was because all this stopping and starting and 
side-slipping consumed time. It permitted Cadet George Kirschen- 
bauer to come in from the side and clamp a headlock on Joe the 
Jet at the Army 42. 



Story-Book Finish 125 

At that, Bellino almost shook off his tormenter and escaped for 
the full course of 99 yards. 

From that run until halftime, Navy was in the ascendency and 
coursing through the erring Cadets with piratical glee. 

Bellino's dramatic scamper down the left sideline flipped the 
game over on it's back in the hour of Navy's need. 

Perhaps never in the hoary history of the military classic had 
one player had so much concentrated defensive preparation de- 
voted to him as Army devoted to Joe the Jet. 

He was harried and hounded every step of the way. Where he 
moved, Army moved. The first three times he carried the football 
he lost a total of n yards. 

When Navy resorted to trickery on his fourth carry of the day, 
Bellino faking his deadly quick kick, then attempting to bootleg 
his left end a vigorous play by Cadet Bob McCarthy, of East Bridge- 
water, Mass., set Bellino down unceremoniously on the seat of his 
pants. 

But his lifelong friend, Frank Dattilo, the Navy left end from 
Winchester, was right when he predicted Thursday, "They'll 
defense Joe into the ground but they can't keep him in a bottle 
all day." 

Joe popped the cork out of the bottle just often enough to beat 
Army, against whom he had scored five TDs in three games. 

With the Orange Bowl game to go, Bellino has left this impres- 
sion on Navy football history: 

1664 yards gained, 198 points (both all time Crabtown records) 
scored in 22 of the 27 varsity games in which he appeared, and 
scored nine touchdowns in five TV appearances. 

But nobody thought to bring a beach umbrella against a sun- 
kissed day that got hung over from early October, a s6-degree after- 
noon that had the hardier witnesses peeling off their topcoats at 
kickoff time. 

It was the best weather with which the contest had been blessed 
within the memory of the saltiest admiral and most weather-creased 
general, although some felt the '46 date was equal to it The field 
was whipped fast from five consecutive days of warm winds. 

The 102,000 addicts, the coaches and players were in accord: 
conditions would make for a truly fair Army test of football be- 
tween once-beaten Navy and twice-beaten Army. 
The 10-mile southwest wind, although it snapped the flags to 



126 Jerry Nason 

attention atop the big bowl, was a minimum factor in pre-game 
calculations, since it originated at the towering bowl end of Phila- 
delphia Stadium. 

Prom there on the day sort of became the personal property of 
Joe Bellino. 



FROM RICHES TO RAGS 

By Wells Twombly 

From The Valley Times Today 
Copyright, , 1960, The Valley Times Today 



High above the thrashing patch of foam, where the plodding 
River Thames says a sudden hello to Long Island Sound, stands a 
trim row of white colonial mansions that house the United States 
Coast Guard Academy. 

No plot of Connecticut's hallowed ground is quite so picturesque 
on an autumn afternoon; not the mossy Yale Bowl nor the Dear 
Old Temple Bar We Loved So Well nor the cool hills near Storrs 
where state university students examine nature's beauty through 
blurry eyes. 

On a Saturday, with the weak New England sun straining piti- 
fully to brush off the chill of advancing winter, brass-covered blue 
coats stroll along the Academy's tree-studded paths with their ladies 
on their arms. 

If the humor strikes them and there is nothing good at ^ the 
movies in New London, they may wander off to the stamp-sized 
plain where their mates are playing a game of football. 

There is no urgency about arriving in time to watch the open- 
ing kickofL At least there wasn't when this Delayed Pioneer burned 
his muffler and fled shivering for Western warmth. 

There is where Otto Graham secludes himself from the horrors of 
big college football. Here he resists the weight of pressures to win 
and win and win again. This Is his hermitage, his haven, his port 
against the storm. 

You will remember Graham as the dark eyed, bushy haired hero 
who made the Cleveland Browns the most genuinely feared name 
in the locker rooms around the National Football League. 

As the quarterback in Paul Brown's hand-crafted offense, Graham 
performed his appointed functions with a sacred fire burning in 

his chest. 

On his final day as a pro Dec. 26, 1955 he threw two touch- 
down passes, ran for two more scores and defeated the Los Angeles 

127 



12 8 Wells Twombly 

Rams, 38-19, in the playoff for the league championship before 

85,000 sobbing fans at the Coliseum. 

With a firm wave of his hand, he was gone; vowing never to re- 
turn to pressure football regardless of the compensation offered. 

Three football seasons slipped by and, on a hundred occasions, 
Otto was reported to be pondering a coaching job with one of the 
nation's choicest football mills. 

Each time, Otto repeated his stand against pressure and pish- 
poshed the notion that he'd return. 

Then some senior officer at the Coast Guard Academy went on 
an efficiency bender. After removing 16 years of accumulated dust, 
he swept his football coach out of office. 

With typical Coast Guard courage, he set his cap for Otto Gra- 
ham. There were a couple of phone calls and Otto was smuggled 
onto the campus. Convinced that there was no pressure lurking any- 
where, he announced he would coach the Cadets. 

Two weeks later he was sworn into the Guard as a commander. 

Cannon boomed a salute across the estuary as Otto stepped offi- 
cially aboard. A bosun's pipe shrieked and that was that. Seeking 
low pressure football, he arrived at the very place where the stuff 
is made and bottled. 

The Coast Guard differs from the other service schools in that it 
teaches shore line defense ahead of the umbrella pass defense, 
rather than simultaneously. 

A hefty 1 85-pound lineman may get past the admittance board, 
but only because he has a straight-A average stashed away some 
place. Most of the players are on the runty side. 

A successful season, is one in which Trinity is beaten and a gallant 
game is played against Wesleyan or Worcester Polytechnic Institute. 

"I plan to stay at Coast Guard forever/' said Otto, and he 
may have meant it. Since most of the alumni are at sea most of the 
time, it seemed a peachy place to spend a lifetime. 

Chin up, chest out and stomach flat, Otto went out to sink the 
enemy last fall with a full-throttle, pro-style offense. 

First off, Otto's first string quarterback decided to study. Then 
Geneva College raked him with bullets, 35-0; Vermont placed a 
torpedo in his bow, 34-6, and Norwich Military rammed and sunk 
him, 20-7. If the Cadets hadn't beached a respectable Amherst 
team, 14-12, Otto might have agreed that this was carrying a good 
thing a little too far. 



From Riches to Rags 129 

Now the second season of low-pressure football begins for Otto 
Graham and it was not particularly stunning to discover a small 
dispatch tucked off in the corner of an Eastern newspaper. 

*Tm looking for a quarterback who can throw the ball five feet," 
grumbled Otto. Seems the regular boy wants to study again this fall. 



OLD BUSTER IN IVYLANB 

By Blackie Sherrod 

From The Dallas Times-Herald 

Copyright, , 1960, The Dallas Times-Herald 



New York As long as he's in the vicinity, don't you know, a chap 
should certainly take in The Game. 

And iffen you don't know what The Game is, then you ain't got 
a large amount of couth and don't stand there wiping your nose 
on your sleeve and mumbling apologies. 

The Game is the annual football contest between the Harvards 
and the Yales and it is never referred to by any other title. In 
New England, the citizens and the news media simply speak of The 
Game. On the front of the program, the printing says nothing 
about the Harvards and the Yales. It says, The Game, in letters 
four inches high. 

(It ain't Harvard, anyways. It's Hahvud. Watch that stuff.) 

And so it happened that our aging hero was in Boston last week- 
end to witness an execution, and someone pressed a ticket to The 
Game into his sweaty palm. 

"You owe it to yourself, old fellow," said the benefactor. 

Old fellow finished quaffing his nut brown and banged the oaken 
table with the pewter tankard. 

"By jove," says we, squaring tiny shoulders, "consider it done." 

New England had been blessed with a wondrous Indian summer. 
But come Saturday of The Game, and the very weather turned 
austere and haughty. Freeze the marrow of your Southern bones. 

"We could stay in the hotel and watch it on television," says 
we bravely, feigning pneumonia. 

"Nonsense," growled our guide. "It's the day of The Game." 

And so, with a merry chattering of teeth, we set forth and never 
shall we rue the day. We will give you Ringling Brothers, Barnum 
and Bailey and 18 points and take The Game every ruddy time. 

Hahvud is a vast collection of old red brick buildings with gables 
and white window trim and ivy turned rusty by the season. And 
over its many acres pour these denizens of a corduroy world a 

130 



Old Buster in Ivyland 13 1 

brown pageantry of parkas and suede boots, of teeth braces and 
horn rim glasses, of fuzzy little hats with shaving brushes on the 
bands and, yet, of heavy raccoon coats calculated to give Big 
Daddy Lipscomb a severe hernia. 

Station wagons crowd upon the premises. The tailgates are let 
down and all sorts of goodies, solid and liquid, are set forth. A 
cheerful old gal in fur boots and a diamond roughly the size of a 
turkey egg sets up a portable charcoal grill and wafts a hamburger 
scent all over the place while her hubby pours ready-mixed martinis 
for the guests. 

Big canvas tents dot the landscape with signs like Harvard Class 
of '37, and inside are tables of delicate sandwiches and coffee and 
fellowship. There are Rugby games on fields adjacent to the sta- 
dium, which is a 57-year-old horror of stone copied after the Acrop- 
olis of Athens with wooden plank seating and huge pillars and 
dark passageways. 

And there is a great abundance of spirits, the better to fight 
off the rigors of weather and the fact that absolutely no seat 
cushions are sold in the stadium. 

This one dignified old gent in Tyrolian hat, Tattersall vest and 
stout brogues stood discreetly behind a rock wall and produced a 
brown bottle from somewhere in his Brooks Brothers garments. 
He pulled heroically at the stuff, while his freshly powdered wattles 
quivered in protest, and went into a spell of coughing and eye- 
watering. 

You just knew that this fine gent would never repeat this tor- 
ture on any other day of the year. He usually sat in a lush leather 
chair at the club and had Jarvis or Cleve or Hamilton fetch him an 
ale for his appetite. 

But, by gad, sir, this was The Game and these things have to be 
done. 

The Hahvud band warmed up on a nearby pasture and these 
lads were a bit unbelievable. They were clad in dusty black loafers, 
wrinkled white ducks, red flannel blazers and red ties that were 
wonderfully askew, 

One wore a beret. Another, an eye patch. Most had unfortunate 
complexions and thick glasses and difficulty determining which 
was the right foot and which was the left foot for the purpose of 
marching. . 

This, we thought with a certain amount of disdain, was certainly 



132 Blackie Sherrod 

going to be something. If they can play Come to Jesus in whole 
notes, then we are President Grover Cleveland. 

But, as we watched, this scraggly bunch meandered out on the 
field for a pre-game concert and played the most crisp, most beauti- 
fully disciplined music you can ever imagine. 

It wasn't a handsome crowd. Most of the gals looked as if they 
had their hair beat off with a wet rope and they wore the thick 
black stockings and stood pigeon-toed. And the menfolk were mostly 
short with florid cheekbones and tight collars. 

But it was wonderfully mannered. There was no harsh shoving 
and gouging and pushing. Neither was there any belligerency nor 
any gritted-teeth alumni intent on hanging the coach in effigy. 
What there was, was subdued gaiety and an abundance of good 
naturedness. 

The game was much. A really fine Yale running back named 
Ken Wolfe dashed 4O-odd yards on the first play and the Hahvuds 
were never in contention. There was cheering and there was boo- 
ing, but mostly there was enjoyment of the day and the festivities 
and of the hamburgers on the tailgate grill. 

And so, it seemed to this scarred fugitive from the grim, grim 
world of Southwest football, that The Game isn't The Game at all, 
in our provincial terms. 

Rather it's a holiday to be anticipated and relished, a place to 
take your best gal with a calm realization that there has to be a 
loser just as there has to be a winner, and the sky ain't gonna fall 
down, regardless of the result. 

The Hahvuds lost, to be sure, and the pure blue amateur sky 
stayed up there and everybody had a ball and who's to say these 
citizens ain't got the right idea? 



A LOOK AT A FOOTBALLER 
By Dan Jenkins 

From The Fort Worth Press 
Copyright, , 1960, The Fort Worth Press 



The college football player to most people is a distant object to 
be alternately cheered, booed, praised, criticized and inevitably 
forgotten. He is at least this many things: 

A great big guy of enormous physical capabilities, according to 
the gradeschooler, who could whip most anybody's dad with a 
casual flick of his index finger. ... A guy whose team either has 
neat looking uniforms or the kind with no stripes. . . . 

For the perceptive high schooler he falls into two main categories: 
He either sidesteps tacklers, or he doesn't. . . . He either keeps his 
socks pulled up, or he doesn't. ... He either has good legs or bad 
ones. . . . (Good ones bulge at the calves and preferably they are 
tan. Bad ones don't bulge so much, and they aren't so tan.) 

He can be a terrific speaker at the civic club luncheon on Wed- 
nesdays if he knows a joke, new or old. He's the quiet bashful type 
if he doesn't know any. ... If he can give an invocation he's a 
serious-minded youth who will do well in business when he gradu- 
ates. 

Often, when he's elected captain, he demonstrates qualities of 
leadership unlike any presidential candidate in the entire history 
of the United States. ... If he doesn't flunk out, it's frequently 
rumored he's being considered for a European scholarship. . . . On 
the other hand, a faculty man may tell you it's shameful the way 
they keep athletes in school with dual standards. . . . 

For the impressionable freshman coed he's a peculiar mixture of 
Rock Hudson's facial expressions and a statue of Zeus. . . . He's 
sufficiently modest about the fact that his services have won several 
games, but remindful that the team very possibly would collapse 
without him. . . . His best friend is either the real guts of the 
offense or a fellow against whom the coach holds some mysterious 
grudge 

Campus sophisticates see him only at rare, unfortunate intervals. 



134 Dan Jenkins 

Sometimes at games their dates have dragged them to. Frequently 
in theaters where they've noticed he takes up five seats on two 
rows and manages a monumental belch at the film's epic moment. 
. . . He's commonly categorized as an animal living in the zoo 
(athletic dorm) who is jabbed between the bars on Saturdays and 
then turned loose on the public in a peculiar materialistic ritual 

He is handed copies of all final examinations for the next four 
years upon registration day. He sits on the back row. He sleeps. He 
overeats. He wears houseshoes to formal dances. At least three girls 
have disappeared and never been heard from again when last seen 
in his company. Nobody understands how anyone as cute as she 
is could go with him. . . . 

At the same time, he is studying pre-med. He is studying engi- 
neering. His lab grade was better than anyone. He's in one of the 
better fraternities. HE'S WHAT? ... His family is really very rich 
and well-to-do in that small town. He's not half bad. He's really 
quite nice. You just don't know him. . . . 

Still, he slugged his best friend in a poker game the other night 
in the dorm. He tore the phone off the wall when she broke a date. 
He broke training after the crucial loss. He broke training after 
the crucial win. Beer doesn't hurt. You work it off. ... 

He'll probably make All-American and then he'll really be in- 
sufferable. He deserves it. He's the only good guy on the team. 
He's the most underrated player in the conference. His press clip- 
pings won't earn him a living. ... If he couldn't get through school 
playing football, he'd be driving a truck. But he's on the student 
council. So what? The sponsor's a football nut. . . . 

The football player is all of this in varying forms. 

But if there was a time in the past when the majority of them 
were "animals," that time has vanished. 

The college player is collectively smarter. Standards have raised 
and are rising higher, academically. You have to be smarter to get 
into college because the campus is crowded. And you can't stay 
there if you are dumb. The athlete is no exception. 

He may receive some concessions from certain instructors, but 
they probably are deserved because no sport is more time-consum- 
ing than football. And the lessons to be learned in the stadium, 
are as vital to the nation as those in the classrooms. Despite Sputnik, 
it's true. If you believe otherwise, you are jumping off to a dark 
conclusion at the other end of the pier. 



A Look at a Footballer 135 

The strange part is, it wouldn't mean nearly so much to him if 
the cheers weren't accompanied by the boos. It wouldn't mean as 
much to all of us, either. When it's over he understands that and 
finally identifies himself. 



BOXING 



THEY CAN COME BACK 

By Royal Brougham 

From The Seattle Post-Intelligencer 

Copyright, , 1960, TTie Seattle Post-Intelligencer 



Remember that old adage o the prize ring "They Never Come 
Back"? 

Junk it. 

With revenge in his heart and fury in his fists, Floyd Patterson 
battered Ingemar Johansson to the canvas in the fifth round tonight 
and brought the heavyweight championship of the world back to 
America. 

The end came dramatically at one minute, 51 seconds of round 
No. 5. 

The negro boy from Dixie fought like an enraged tiger this 
warm, June night before a frenzied crowd of about 40,000, which 
exceeded all expectations. At the very onset of a vicious, slugging 
battle, Patterson surprisingly took the initiative away from the man 
who gave him a severe beating just one year ago. 

Patterson lost only one round, the second. In every other minute 
of the abbreviated struggle, Floyd was the complete master as 
Johansson's "Toonder and Lightnin' " right-hand punch failed to 
explode. 

Patterson whipped him with a terrific hand speed and combina- 
tion punches, plus a ferocity of attack which had the champion 
retreating nearly all through the exciting contest. 

The end of the reign for the gay, fun-loving troubadour from 
Sweden was a brutal, bloody spectacle. Before the fatal fifth had 
gone into its second minute, Patterson caught the dazed Johansson 
with a left hook which had all the power of a thunderbolt. 

The glassy-eyed champ went down for a nine-count. Everybody 
in the vast reaches of the old discarded Polo Grounds knew it was 
the beginning of the end. Ingo's seconds knew it. Even Johansson 



138 Royal Brougham 

could sense that his treasured championship was slipping through 
his grasp as he wearily regained his feet. 

The crusher came a minute later. 

Patterson put every ounce and pound in his muscular left 
shoulder behind the staggering blow. It was a left hook which 
traveled with the speed of sound. It hit flush on the target. The 
handsome Swede fell prone. 

After the referee had tolled the fatal eight-nine-ten, there wasn't 
even a quiver from the body of the dethroned king of the heavies. 

Ingemar's Scandinavian friends came pouring through the ropes 
as the referee signalled that the fight was over. They bent over their 
man who, only a few minutes before, had entered the arena su- 
premely confident with a smile on his face. 

Patterson leaned over his victim, peering anxiously at the un- 
conscious fighter. 

As Patterson bent over toward Johansson he promised the Swede 
a rematch, he told reporters after the fight. 

"I positively guarantee you a return fight," he said. Later in 
his dressing room, Patterson said he would like to fight within 
90 days. 

Ingo never heard him. 

Asked if he ever had thrown a harder punch, Patterson said, "It 
was the hardest punch I ever threw because I was heavier than I 
ever was before." 

When reporters queried Patterson about the right hand that 
Johansson landed in the second he said, "Yes it hurt. But not as 
bad as some people thought. I even winked at Irving Kahn (head 
of Tele-Prompter) at the ring-side." 

For a full 11 minutes, Ingemar's doctors, trainers and seconds 
worked over him before they were able to lift his numb and battered 
body onto a stool in mid-ring. 

This was a signal for an uproarious celebration by joyful sup 
porters of the man who refused to believe the experts when they 
said almost unanimously that Patterson didn't have a chance. A 
score of hands lifted Floyd high into the air. Patterson's features 
broke into a beaming grin as the crowd, which wouldn't go home, 
paid him noisy tribute. 

At last, the bruised and scarred ex-champ regained his feet. He 
looked around with unbelieving eyes, seeming to sense for the first 
time that his championship reign was all over. 



They Can Come Back 139 

A few rows from ring-side, his charming fiancee Birgit Lundgren 
wept. She looked on in horror as they led her hero down the aisle 
and into the musty recesses of the underground corridor that led 
to the dressing room. 

Johansson's quarters were locked to all, including reporters. 

It may have been an ill omen when Johansson, entering the 
ring late, wasn't on hand for the singing of the Swedish national 
anthem, which followed "The Star-Spangled Banner" rendered by 
the thrilling voice of Eddie Fisher, by a Scandinavian baritone. 

From a group in the stands came the chant 

"Heje, heje, heje!" 

Ingemar grinned in appreciation of the tribute by his country- 
men. 

Arthur Mercante, in his first big refereeing job, gave the two 
men final instructions and the battle was joined. 

Promptly at the opening bell, the challenger rushed to the offen- 
sive with a flurry of punches, tossing caution to the winds. Verily, 
this was a new Floyd Patterson. He worked inside of Ingo's long, 
sneaky left jabs and caught the invader from Godeberg with two 
left hooks. 

Ringsiders thought they saw the Swede's knees buckle. Floyd 
was playing rough. It was midway in the round before Johansson 
fired his Hammer of Thor right-hand punch. It missed. This may 
have been the tipoff. It was Patterson's round. 

The second was the only round in which Johansson displayed 
the skill which featured his last and more successful appearance 
against the same opponent. Ingo caught the colored man with a 
glancing right but Floyd shook it off. The punch hurt. It slowed 
up the challenger, who backed away through most of the round 
pawing at Ingemar ineffectively. Floyd smiled sort of an embarrassed 
smile as he walked to his corner. Johansson won the round. 

But the magnificently trained Patterson resumed the offensive 
in the third. Patterson was boxing well now and he made Ingemar 
miss his right and left-hand shots. Not once did the champion land 
effectively. A welt appeared on Ingo's dimpled cheek and the 
writers racked up the round for Floyd. 

It was Patterson again in round four. The challenger uncovered 
a new vicious weapon a short, jolting right-hand punch which 
caught the surprised Ingo coming out of a clinch. Three times 
Patterson used it, three times it rocked his opponent Johansson 



140 Royal Brougham 

was trying to keep his aggressive opponent at bay with his left 
hand. But Patterson was not to be denied. 

The colored man was in complete control in the clinches. The 
weakening champion lost the round as the crowd, sensing a tre- 
mendous upset in the making, roared its approval when the bell 
halted festivities. 

Then the fatal fifth. How the floor bounced up and belted poor 
Ingemar on the chin, bringing crushing defeat to the pride of 
Godeberg and glorious triumph to the new ruler of the heavy- 
weight ranks, has been told. 

And so it ended, one of the most exciting fistic encounters this 
old cavernous arena has ever witnessed. 

There'll be dancing in the streets in Harlem, far into the night. 



SCHMELING THE UNREAL 
By Leonard Shecter 

From The New York Post 
Copyright, , 1960, New York Post Corp. 



There is an aura of unreality about Max Schmeling, as though 
he dwells in an old silent film, scratchy and full of jerky, puppet- 
like movements. Somehow, it's a feeling he cultivates, begging be- 
lief that there was no Nazi Germany, no war, no blood, nothing 
but a time when men spent themselves gloriously only in the square 
arena of boxing. 

Schmeling is 55 years old now, but even to those who knew him 
just from photographs and the starkness of old fight films, there 
is no mistaking him. It's still there, the deep-chested figure with 
the immense hands, the full black hair only just now graying at the 
temples, the unmistakable flattened nose and gross features that 
make him resemble every ex-pug everywhere. 

"I walk on Broadway/' Schmeling said proudly in his heavily- 
accented English, "everybody knows me. They say, 'Hello, Max, 
how is everything?' They still remember those times, those old, 
good times." 

If once there was arrogance in him, it's gone now. He's courtly 
and friendly, bobbing little bows from the waist like some harassed 
burgomeister. He wants to help you on with your coat and is solici- 
tous as to whether you can find the elevator. 

Only the friendship and the glory are remembered; the rest is 
brought back so dimly that even the pain is pale. He recalls, but only 
as though through an echo chamber, what it was like at the Yankee 
Stadium for the second fight with Joe Louis in 1938. 

"When I went from the dressing room to the ring, I heard much 
hate from the public But I think it was not against me as a person, 
but as a German," Schmeling said. 

Understand the distance of years. Twice Schmeling crossed the 
Atlantic by zeppelin. "I was booked on the last trip of the Hinden- 
burg," Schmeling said. "The Boxing Commission saved me. I had 
to change and come earlier. The man who got my ticket was killed." 

141 



142 Leonard Shecter 

But Schmeling doesn't remember he screamed like an animal the 
night Louis beat him up in just over two minutes, although that's 
the way it was reported by newspapermen who were there. 

It is almost impossible at this distance to evaluate any more. 
Capable reporters have accused him of being a Nazi, although it 
has been shown that he was never a member of the party. "In 
the build-up for the fight, there was much speaking of hate," Schmel- 
ing said, but insists now he never hated, nor does he believe he was 
really hated. Perhaps he protests too much. 

"I am not so dumb to say anything which would hurt me in this 
country," Schmeling said, looking back at the way he says it was. 
"I am here now 36 times. In 1941, before the United States was 
in the war, I was interviewed by INS. I said I would not fight against 
the Americans. For this, they took me before a court martial. 

"When I saw Louis in 1954, he threw his arms around me. 
I said 'you don't believe all the bunk in the papers'; and he said, 
'Ah, I don't care/ Since then we are good friends already. 

"It was silly to say I hate Jews or Joe Louis. I was in this country 
more than Germany. My manager, Joe Jacobs, was a Jew. He was 
very orthodox and I went to synagogue with him. Besides I am a 
sportsman and they never hate against any race." 

Schmeling is a warm-looking man now. Although he is only 15 
pounds over his fighting weight, he has gone to flesh around the 
face and you want to believe he's as gentle as he looks. Probably 
he is, but you had to wonder about his understanding when he 
went on to say, "In Germany, there are few who are race-haters. 
Even with the party people, it was this way." He meant the Nazi 
party. 

Schmeling came here this time as the guest of a Toronto tele- 
vision station which wanted him. for a special and nostalgic broad- 
cast. The last trip was paid for by "This Is Your Life," when it sob- 
sistered Louis. Not that Schmeling needs the money. He is the suc- 
cessful owner of a Coca-Cola plant in Hamburg, has 57 trucks, and 
181 employees. 

There were many strange reports about him during the war. He 
was a deserter; he was dead; he was out to kill Goebbels. The first 
time he wanted to come here after the war, a columnist wrote. . . . 
"I trust he will give an exhibition, not of boxing, but of how he 
dropped as a paratrooper on Crete and helped obliterate an out- 
manned British garrison/* 



Schmeling the Unreal 143 

The truth is that the first time Schmeling dropped on Crete, he 
ruined both his knees and that was the end of the war for him. 

This is no apology for Schmeling, who wore the uniform of the 
enemy. It may even be true that, as has been written, he stood by 
and watched riflemen take target practice against Jewish children 
burrowing out of the Warsaw ghetto. 

But we live in a strange time. We buy Japanese cameras and field 
glasses, German typewriters and we ask Max Schmeling, who for 
a long time in this country was a symbol of the arrogant horror 
of Nazi Germany, about what he thinks of the fight business these 
days. "I watched the Robinson fight on television," he said. "The 
verdict was all right. It was for a championship and you have to do 
better than Robinson did to win. Fullmer is strong, but his boxing 
skill is not so good/' 

And how about Ingemar Johansson? 

"I picked him to win the first time and the second time, too, but 
I don't know what he did in between. He is in Switzerland now. 
He has a nice house, but no sparring partner/* 

Suddenly, and for the only time during the conversation, Schmel- 
ing looked, for a moment, superior. He patted his flat belly. 



FROM NOWHERE TO NOWHERE 

By Morton Moss 

From The Los Angeles Examiner 
Copyright, , 1960, The Los Angeles Examiner 



Don Jordan, who came from nowhere to the title, began the 
return trip Friday night when he yielded the welterweight cham- 
pionship to the cruelly insistent fists of Cuba's Benny "Kid" Paret 
at Convention Center. 

Jordan, often with no more snap than an exhausted rubber band, 
clearly showed the sad effects of his irregularities over past months. 
The decision was unanimous for Paret, who punched incessantly 
although without impressive power or sense of direction. 

Actually, there were few climactic instants in the 15 rounds and 
those were hardly of a startling impact. Paret isn't an excessively 
bright battler. Otherwise he could have taken far greater advantage 
of Don's lack of vigor. 

There were occasions on which Paret would circle the almost 
stationary Jordan, then dart forward with flights of leather to the 
body and then perhaps a stinging shot to the head. 

But he committed the strategic mistake too often of surging 
against Jordan and swinging his gloves as though to bulldoze Don 
into retreat. 

This merely made it unnecessary for Don to employ the dragging 
legs that had no business being so deprived of energy with their 
owner only 25 years old. Strangely enough, Paret came to Jordan 
thus invitingly many times during the final five rounds. 

Don displayed his ablest offensive then. He whacked Paret's chin 
with sweeping right hands and left hooks. Yet, Paret, though cuffed 
back on his heels once or twice, would quickly spring to the as- 
sault again. 

If Benny "Kid" had possessed some craft, his superiority would 
have been more evident. As it was, it occasionally looked like work 
in the latter stages. 

Referee Charley Randolph, imported from California where 
Jordan doesn't have a license because of his sequel of escapades 

144 



From Nowhere to Nowhere 145 

and involvements, voted the verdict to Paret, 72-65, with a point 
deducted from the Kid as a consequence of a low blow in the i4th. 

Judges Ralph Mosa and Ray Lessard, both Nevadans, tabbed 
Paret, 72-67 and 71-68. We had Paret 69-67. 

Jordan possibly will find himself in a dead-end street now, a 
brief year and a half since the world was presented to him as pheas- 
ant-under-glass the night he upset Virgil Akins for the title in 
December of 1958. 

Money? The major share of the $85,000 purse he earned for the 
nationally telecast match will go, according to contract, to co-mana- 
gers Don Nesseth and Jackie McCoy from whom he somehow felt it 
necessary to purchase his freedom. 

In his corner was his new-found adviser Roy Renard, whose 
boxing apprenticeship as an adviser was served as a maitre d' in 
Los Angeles. Don also was handled by Chickie Ferrara and Angelo 
Curley, a couple of easterners. 

Absent was Eddie Futch, the trainer from whom he absorbed 
much of the skill and poise that brought him startlingly to the 
height of his profession. Jordan has a private agreement with the 
Paret clan for a return bout. Jordan has but the stipulation wasn't 
written into the contract. 

Anthony Maceroni, National Boxing Association chief, has an- 
nounced here that Federico Thompson obtains the next challenge 
of Paret in 90 days and after that comes Luis Rodriguez. 

In this capital of chance, Jordan got away from the post as though 
he had no chance. You might say Don started tired. Watching him 
move to battle, dispirited and minus the drive that a champion 
should have, it was understandable that he had been kayoed by 
Thompson and lost a non-title quarrel to Candy McFarland less 
than two weeks ago. 

Paret pointed his main concentration at the body. Sturdily 
muscled, this lad of 20 appeared considerably more mature physically 
than the slender and pinch-cheeked Jordan, weighing at 144*^, 
two pounds less than Benny "Kid." 

Jordan, at first, attempted jabs. They reached the mark but 
they were blabby. Paret brushing them aside, contemptuously and 
whipped in on Jordan to pummel the midriff. Don couldn't keep 
him off. 

Jordan was sluggish. He punched slowly. He would threaten a 
swing and Paret would land two meanwhile. 



146 Morton Moss 

Jordan went to his corner after the third round with a nick 
above his left eye. Paret raked it at intervals. It grew worse but it 
never impeded Jordan seriously. His real impediment was his past. 
It was catching up with him. 

Jordan didn't have the speed or the maneuverability for the type 
of warfare that might have beaten the perpetually flinging Paret. 
He couldn't mix his tactics. What he did was shoot the big punches, 
hoping evidently that one would land and coagulate the brain of 
The Kid, a 5 to 9 choice. 

The Kid, aiming so much to the body, was running into frequent 
cautions from Randolph for low leather. The warnings finally added 
up to the deducted point of the 14th. 

Paret's financial take was a thin 20 per cent of the net remaining 
from a 130,410 gross contributed by a slim crowd of 4805. But he 
did gain a championship. He will treasure it. Some people do. 



THE FLOYD PATTERSON I KNOW 

By W. C. Heinz 

From Sport 
Copyright, , 1960, W. C. Heinz 



The strange thing about Floyd Patterson is that he wasn't cut 
out to be a fighter. This sounds ridiculous, even to me, for here is 
a man who brings to his endeavor great natural skill and complete 
dedication. He was not only the youngest heavyweight champion 
of all time but he is the only one ever to regain his crown, and so 
he must go down in the history of his sport as one who belonged 
to it as few men ever have. 

If the record were to stop right now, in fact, it would show that 
he has won thirty-six of thirty-eight fights and knocked out twenty- 
five of his opponents. The picture of the man that emerges from 
this is not, however, a true representation of the man I know. What 
I want to try to do now is put him down as he is, the way the 
record book can never show him but just as I have seen him at 
various times in many places and what he said. 

There was, for example, the day I went up to see him at Green- 
wood Lake, N. Y. Three weeks before, he had knocked out Archie 
Moore to win the heavyweight championship and he was back in 
training at the Long Pond Inn. 

On the ground floor of the Inn there is a bar and dining room, 
and the living quarters and gymnasium are over it. When I checked 
with the bartender he said that Patterson was up in his room and 
I went up there and we shook hands. 

"What time is it?" he said. 

"One o'clock," I said. 

'Til be down in the dining room in a half hour/' he said. 

I waited in the dining room, for three and a half hours. As I sat 
there the place came alive with teen-age kids who had been ice 
skating on the lake but who had come in now to play the juke box 
and to dance to it. Finally, at 4:30, one of the sparring partners 
came down and found me. 

147 



148 W. C. Heinz 

"Floyd says hell meet you in the gym in five minutes," the spar- 
ring partner said. "He apologizes." 

"That's fine/' I said, a little sore about it. "Where has he been?" 

"Up in the room/' the sparring partner said. "He come down a 
couple of times, but when he saw all these kids here he went back. 
He was embarrassed to come in." 

He was already the heavyweight champion of the world. 

Two nights later we were standing and talking by the pool table 
beyond the bar. We were watching a couple of sparring partners 
play at the game, and I was working Patterson around slowly to the 
feelings he had when he saw the dining room jumping with those 
kids. 

"But you're the heavyweight champion of the world now/' I 
said. "Doesn't that give you the security to walk through a room 
of teen-agers?" 

"No," he said. "I still don't like to be stared at." 

I thought of John L. Sullivan. 

I kept coming back to this. Patterson is not a man you can push, 
but he will try for you as few men will if you just rest him between 
runs. This time we were standing in front of the Long Pond, wait- 
ing for one of his sparring partners to come back from town with 
the morning newspapers. 

"But you're going to be stared at a lot," I said. 

"I know," he said. 

"When did you first realize that this was going to be a problem?" 
I said. 

"The day after I won the title/' he said. "Just before the fight 
my wife gave birth to our daughter, so right after the fight these 
friends and I we got in the car to drive back from Chicago. The 
next day we stopped at one of those roadside restaurants and we 
went in. 

"By now the fight was all over the front pages of the newspapers, 
pictures and all, and I could see the people around the place recog- 
nizing me and starting to whisper. I figured we better get out of 
there quick, so we didn't even finish our meal." 

Just before he won the title Patterson bought a ten-room house 
for his mother and the eight youngest of her eleven children in 
Mount Vernon, N. Y. The mayor of the town is an ex-fighter, so 
after Patterson knocked out Moore they staged a torch-light parade 
for him. 



The Floyd Patterson I Know 149 

"How was the parade?" I asked Patterson. 

"I was ashamed," Patterson said. 

"Why?" I said. 

"Me sitting in an open car and waving to people/' Patterson said. 
"Those are things you only see kings or a president doing." 

It was the same with the dinner jacket. A heavyweight champion 
has to give the award circuit some kind of play, so Cus D'Amato, 
who manages Patterson, made him buy a tuxedo. 

"I don't care to wear it," Patterson said, "and I don't like to go 
to formals. I don't feel it's my walk of life. That's for people who 
were born and raised that way. I wasn't." 

I thought of James J. Corbett. 

After Patterson knocked out Roy Harris, nine months went by 
before he fought Brian London. During seven of those months he 
lived with his wife and their daughter in their home in St. Albans 
on Long Island. Three or four days a week, though, he would come 
into New York to loosen up, and one afternoon I met him at the 
Gramercy Gym, on East Fourteenth Street. 

"Are you doing road work, too?" I said. 

"Only twice a week," he said. 

"What time do you run?" 

"Well, in camp I don't get up until 6:30," he said, "but here in 
the city I get up at 5:30 so I get finished before the people start 
to work and see me." 

"Doesn't anybody ever see you?" I said. 

"Usually I run on Saturday and Sunday when everybody doesn't 
get up so early," he said, "but one day I ran during the week. It was 
a Thursday and after I finished in the park where I run the fella 
who was supposed to pick me up was late. About an hour passed 
before he came, and there I was sitting on the park bench with my 
heavy clothes on and all sweaty and a towel around my neck. All 
these people were going to work by then, and they were looking 
at me like I was crazy." 

"Didn't anyone recognize you?" I said. 

"No," he said. "I was the champion, so I hid my face." 

"Shyness is so deeply ingrained in you," I said to him one night 
at the Long Pond, "that I suppose that one of your earliest mem- 
ories is of being embarrassed in public/' 

"I guess that's right," he said. "I remember when I was just a little 
kid. I used to have long hair and my father would comb it. Then 



15 o W. C. Heinz 

he'd send me around the corner for cigarettes, and I remember 
one day a lady stopping me and running her fingers through my 
hair. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to cry, and I ran."^ 

He thought about it. It was after dinner and we were still sitting 
at the table. 

"I had to be just a tiny kid for a lady to do that," he said, but 

I never forgot it." 

Patterson's mother is a serene, sympathetic, soft-spoken woman 
of forty-eight. While she reared her family of eleven children in 
the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, N. Y., she also worked 
as a domestic and, for a while, in a bottling factory. 

"I would take Floyd to school," she said, sitting in the living 
room of her home in Mount Vernon, "and as long as I stayed there 
he would stay but when I left he'd sneak out. I think the large 
number of children in the classes frightened Floyd." 

"Where would he go?" I said. 

"He'd hide/' she said. "I remember once when he was six years 
old he found a friend in the school. Then he and the friend dis- 
appeared and later they found them hiding together in the base- 
ment of the school." 

As he got older Patterson hid in movie theaters. If you live 
in Brooklyn and you're interested, he used to hide in the Regent, 
the Apollo and the Banko. 

"That was when I had the money for admission," he said. 
"Otherwise I would spend the time in Prospect Park, watching the 
animals in the zoo. I liked to watch the animals." 

Often at night he would sleep in the park. Some nights he slept 
in subway stations. 

"How much was the admission to the movies in those days?" I 
said. 

"Eighteen cents," he said. 

"How much cash have you got in your pocket right now?" I said. 

This was some months before he fought Ingemar Johansson the 
first time. We were sitting on the ring apron in the Gramercy Gym, 
and Patterson had on a pair of beautifully tailored dark brown 
slacks and a heavy-knit light tan sweater. 

"Oh/' he said, "I'd say between eighty and a hundred dollars." 

"Do you also carry a check book?" 

"Yes." 

"When you started to be a fighter did you ever think you'd have 



The Floyd Patterson I Know 151 

eighty dollars in walk-around money and a check book in your 
pocket?" 

"I never dreamt, even, that such a day would come/' he said. 

"Are you bothered by the sight of blood?" I asked him once. 

"How do you mean?" he said. 

"Have you ever been scared, as a child or since, when you've 
been cut?" 

I asked this question because a fighter must regard lightly the 
changes his business makes upon his physical person. He must also 
be relatively unaffected by the hurt he inflicts upon others. 

"No," he said. "I've seen my blood flow from me when I was 
younger. One time I got a nail stuck in my foot and I kept it in 
there for three hours, until my mother came home from work. You 
see, there was this lady baby-sitting for us and I was scared to tell 
her about the nail because she was very mean and she would beat 
you. So when I got this nail in my foot I kept it there and stayed 
in the front room for three hours until my mother came home and 
then I told her about it." 

"What about seeing blood on others?" 

"On somebody else?" he said. "Well, this hasn't happened lately, 
but in the wintertime, when it's cold and my nose feels cold, I'd 
sometimes see two people fighting on the street. I'd actually see a 
guy with a big fist hit the other guy square on the nose or face. 
You know?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, when I'd see that, I'd feel it myself. It really seemed 
that I could actually feel it, and I would rather be fighting the one 
guy and taking the punishment than to see the other guy taking 
it, because I could just imagine how it feels to get hit when you're 
cold like that." 

The first time Patterson was down in a professional fight was 
when Jacques Royer-Crecy dropped him to one knee with a right 
hand in the first round at the St. Nicholas Arena in New York. He 
came up before the count, but in the dressing room later the fight 
writers asked him about it. 

"He slipped," Gus D'Amato said. 

"No," Patterson said. "He knocked me down. I know he hit me 
because I don't remember going down. Otherwise I'd remember." 

Patterson's first loss as a professional was to Joey Maxim, who 
just managed to move him around enough at the Eastern Park- 



i 5 2 W. C. Heinz 

way Arena in Brooklyn to grab the decision. Eleven of the twelve 
boxing writers at ringside thought Patterson had won, so they hit 
him with it later in the dressing room. 

"But don't you think you beat him?" one of them said. 

"The officials could see it better than I could," Patterson said. 
"I was too busy fighting." 

Patterson won the Olympic gold medal in the 1 65-pound divi- 
sion at Helsinki in 1952. Pete Mello coached the United States 
boxing team that year, and one afternoon I went down to the 
C. Y. O. gym on East Seventeenth Street in New York to see him. 

"Tell me about Patterson/' I said. 

"I'm in this business forty-one years," Pete said, "and this is the 
nicest kid I ever handled." 

"Give me an example," I said. 

"We're over in Helsinki," Pete said, "and we have to line up for 
chow. I notice that Patterson used to gather himself three or four 
steaks, so I watch to find out what he's doing." 

"What was he doing?" I said. 

"Some of those Finns didn't have too much to eat," Pete said, 
"so Patterson was making up a package of the food and giving it 
to them." 

Most fighters, preparing for a fight, will carry a mental image of 
the opponent while they run on the road or punch the bag or 
shadow box. Before Patterson fought Archie Moore for the title he 
boxed the fight many times in his mind. 

"I fought Moore," he told me once, "when I was awake, and 
when I was asleep. One night I dreamed I'd already fought him, 
and I'd already won. When I woke up, for three or four seconds I 
thought I was the champ. I lay there with my eyes open, and then 
the realization came to me that the fight was still a week off, but 
I'd already had that good feeling of being champ." 

"So what were your feelings," I said, "when you actually knocked 
out Archie and the referee raised your hand?" 

"I felt good," Patterson said, "and then I felt sorry for Archie 
Moore. I knew how I'd have felt if he had knocked me out. I put 
myself in his place, and I looked at him and I could see how badly 
he felt." 

When Patterson was a kid his idol was Joe Louis. He kept scrap 
books filled with clippings and pictures of Joe, and after Patterson 
won the title the two finally met one night at a dinner. 



The Floyd Patterson I Know 153 

"What was it like?" I asked Patterson. 

"Well," Patterson said, "I said to myself: Is this really Joe Louis? 
Am I finally meeting the man who is my idol?' I almost couldn't 
believe it." 

"But now you were the heavyweight champion of the world," I 
said. "You had his old title." 

"It seemed to me," Patterson said, "like Joe Louis was still the 
champion, and I wasn't." 

Patterson hid out from five schools before they sent him to Wilt- 
wyck, a school for emotionally disturbed boys at Esopus, N. Y. Here 
the classes were smaller and he received individual attention, and 
here he wore boxing gloves for the first time. One afternoon I went 
to see Ernst Papanek, the Wiltwyck director, and Walter Johnson, 
the resident director. 

"When Floyd came to us/' Johnson said, "he was about 11 years 
old, and I can best describe him as very impressionable and a great 
sufferer. He was suspicious of help and he didn't want to be with 
others, so our problem was to get him involved in some group 
activity. 

"We tried several things and then I thought of boxing. I put him 
in a tournament and he won his first three bouts. For the first time 
he had found success in the group, and we had found the tool 
whereby he could relate to others." 

"But he's unlike any other fighter I've ever known," I said. 

"That's right," Papanek said. "I did not expect him to be a boxer. 
He is so very gentle. I do not mean he is weak, but he is soft. Do you 
remember what happened in that fight in Chicago?" 

"Yes," I said. 

In January of 1953 Patterson fought Chester Mieszala in Chicago. 
The week before the fight the two were training in the Midtown 
Gym, but Patterson refused to watch Mieszala box. 

"I'd be taking unfair advantage," he told Cus D'Amato. "I learn 
a lot watching another fighter, and he wouldn't have a chance." 

During the fight Patterson knocked Mieszala's mouthpiece out, 
and Mieszala stopped and bent over to recover it. He was having 
trouble picking it up with his glove, so Patterson stooped down to 
help him. When the mouthpiece was back in place they touched 
gloves, and Patterson finished Mieszala in the fifth round. 

"That's what I mean," Papanek said. "I believe Floyd does not 
want to hurt people." 



154 W. C. Heinz 

When Patterson fought Tommy Harrison in the Eastern Parkway 
he had him out on his feet in the first round, so he dropped his 
hands and waited for the referee to stop it. When he opened a cut 
over Roy Harris' left eye he deserted the eye and went to the body. 

"Were you sorry for Harris?" I said. 

"It wasn't necessary for me to ruin him," Patterson said. "I was 
way ahead on points anyway/' 

This was another afternoon in the Gramercy Gym, and Jacob 
Lofman, the photographer, had been taking pictures of Patterson 
and listening to us talk. 

"May I ask you something, Floyd?" he said. 

"Sure," Patterson said. 

"Does it make any difference to you if it's a white man you're 
fighting?" 

"No," Patterson said. "Absolutely no." 

"But do you ever feel that you're representing your race when 
you're fighting?" I said. 

"Only that time with Roy Harris," Patterson said. "I heard some 
things that were said about the fight. I knew the South was all back- 
ing him up, and most of the colored people you know they didn't 
want to see me get beat. When I got up in the ring, though, none of 
that even entered my mind. He was just another man like every- 
body else has been, so I didn't notice his color or how much was 
involved." 

"Thank you, Floyd," Lofman said. 

After Johansson knocked him out in the third round of their 
first fight, Patterson went into seclusion for a month. When he came 
out of it he set up his training camp in an abandoned roadhouse in 
Newton, Conn., and I guess I visited him there at least a dozen times 
in the next nine months. 

"Do you resent Johansson?" I said to him, the first time I saw 
him after the fight. 

"No," he said. "I was inclined to at first, but then I realized that 
all he did to me was what I tried to do to him, and there was no 
reason to resent him." 

"At any time when you were down in that fight," I said, "did you 
recognize anyone at ringside?" 

"Yes," he said. "I recognized John Wayne. I think it must have 
been the third knockdown, because there I was on the floor looking 
right at John Wayne and John Wayne was looking right at me." 

"Do you know him?" 



The Floyd Patterson I Know 155 

"I've never met him/' Patterson said, "but he's my favorite movie 
actor. He's always the good guy or the sheriff cleaning up the town, 
and I think I've seen him in every picture he's made. At first I 
couldn't figure out how I could be seeing him there at ringside." 

"He was plugging a movie during the broadcast of the fight," I 
said. 

"I know that now," Patterson said, "but all I knew then was that 
I'd seen John Wayne in person, and when I got up I was still think- 
ing of that and I was embarrassed that John Wayne had seen me 
down." 

One day we were sitting in the kitchen of the club. Dan Florio, 
who trains Patterson, was boiling a couple of eggs for him and Pat- 
terson was scanning the headlines in the "New York Mirror." 

"Have you seen Johansson on television?" I said. 

"Not with Dinah Shore," Patterson said, "but I saw him in that 
gangster play." 

" 'The Killers/ " I said. 

"That's right," he said. 

"That would have been the first time you saw him since the fight," 
I said. "Did it bother you?" 

"Well, I heard he was going to be on," Patterson said. "At first I 
didn't know whether I'd watch him. or not. Then I decided to 
watch, and the first time they showed him, he was lying face down 
on a bed." 

"That's right/' I said. 

"Then I lowered my eyes," Patterson said, "and I said to myself: 
'Now this is Johansson. You have to look at him. You have got to 
accept him/ Then I slowly raised my eyes and I looked at him and I 
could accept him. In fact, I thought he was very good in the play." 

"Well," I said, "he played the part of a Swedish heavyweight." 

"I still think he was good," Patterson said. 

The day of the second fight they weighed in at noon at the Com- 
modore Hotel. The big room was crowded with sports writers and 
photographers and members of the fight mob, and I ran into Johnny 
Attell. Johnny was a matchmaker for many years around New York, 
and while we were talking about the fight Billy Conn walked over. 

"Who do you like tonight, Bill?" Johnny said to him. 

"Me?" Conn said. "I like the Swede for his punch." 

"I don't know," Johnny said, shrugging. "Patterson's got the 
equipment to take him if he fights him right." 

"You hear what somebody had Patterson say?" Conn said. 



156 W. C. Heinz 

"What?" Johnny said. 

"Why," Conn said, "he said that when he gets a guy's eye cut he 
lays off the eye and hits him in the belly. You know somebody told 
him to say that, because he'd pour salt in a cut if he could." 

"No, he wouldn't," Johnny said. 

"Are you kidding?" Conn said. 

"No," Johnny said. "This guy Patterson is really that way," 

"Then he's got no business being a fighter," Conn said. 

Left hooks and the only anger he has ever carried into a ring won 
the second Johansson fight for Patterson. The anger was born of a 
resentment, not of Johansson but of the many who Floyd said de- 
serted him and of the many sportswriters who maligned his ability. 
Twenty minutes after the knockout, the anger was still there. In the 
crowded, noisy, humid Polo Grounds dressing room, Howard Cosell, 
the sportscaster, held his microphone in front of Patterson. 

"How do you feel, surrounded by sportswriters," Cosell said, 
"most of whom picked you to lose?" 

"I'm looking right in their faces," Patterson said. 

I thought of something else he once told me. 

"When I was small," he said, "I could never look people in the 
eye. When I tried to look them in the eye, it always seemed that they 
could read my mind. There was nothing on my mind, but it seemed 
they could read it anyway. I tried very hard, and then one day I 
woke up and I could look people in the eye. It had kind of sneaked 
its way in." 

"When I left the Polo Grounds," Patterson told me some days 
later, "the promoters had a car and chauffeur for me. I was sitting in 
the back seat alone, and when we drove through Harlem and I saw 
all the people celebrating in the streets, I felt good." 

"You should have," I said. "There's been nothing like it since 
Louis knocked out Billy Conn." 

"Then I thought about Johansson," Patterson said. "I thought 
how he would have to drive through there, too, and then he would 
have to go through what I went through after the first fight. I 
thought that he would be even more ashamed than I was, because 
he'd knocked me out the first time. Then I felt sorry for him." 

"Do you think," I said, "that you can call up the same kind of 
anger and viciousness the next time you fight Johansson?" 

"Why should I?" Patterson said. "In all my other fights, I was 
never vicious, and I won out in almost all of them." 



The Floyd Patterson I Know 157 

"But you had to be vicious against this guy," I said. "You had to 
turn a boxing contest into a kind of street fight to destroy this guy's 
classic style. When you did that, he came apart. This was your great- 
est fight, because for the first time you expressed emotion. A fight, a 
piece of writing, a painting or a passage of music is nothing without 
emotion." 

"I just hope/' Patterson said, "that I'll never be as vicious again/' 
That's what I mean when I say he wasn't cut out to be a fighter, 
but don't get me wrong. This is a good fighter, as the record books 
will show. His trouble is that he's a better man. 



DANDY AND BULLY-BOY DRAW 

By Eddie Mutter 

From The San Francisco Examiner 
Copyright, , 1960, The San Francisco Examiner 



Sports Arena, Los Angeles, Dec. 3 Ray Robinson, the Harlem 
dandy and the man everybody had relegated to pugilism's graveyard, 
just missed by the narrowest margin becoming world's middleweight 
champion for the sixth time here tonight. 

The 39-year-old New Yorker battled bully-boy Gene Fullmer, 
Utah's ring ruffian, right down to the wire in a smashing 15 rounder 
which officials determined was a draw. 

The crowd of 14455 rose almost as one and gave the still agile 
Robinson a deserving ovation when he left the ring. He had just 
made a surprisingly superb showing in the face of the 1-3 odds 
against him. 

Many, for days, will argue Robinson should have been awarded 
the verdict. 

And yet others will agree with judge Lee Grossman, who balloted 
for Fullmer 9-5 and heatedly disputed referee Tommy Hart's score 
of 11-4 in the Sugar Man's favor. 

What made it come out even was judge George Latka's tally of 8 
points for each fighter. 

This writer tabbed Robinson the winner by a 10-7 margin. 

None, however, left this spacious arena claiming he got hustled 
for his dough. 

It was the kind of battle that had its big moments, spots in which 
it appeared as if Robinson, the guy with "nine lives," would do 
what he did to Fullmer in Chicago flatten him for the full count. 

But the crude, awkward 29-year-old holder of the NBA and Cali- 
fornia versions of the 160 pound crown, shook off punches that 
would have felled a less durable or game scrapper. 

More than once Robinson had his target in trouble. And just as 
often, to the surprise of howling customers, Fullmer, momentarily 
halted in his attack, would plunge back in an effort to even the score 
with a resounding body attack. 



Dandy and Bully-Boy Draw 159 

Cut alongside both eyes and bleeding from the nose, Fullmer 
seemed in worse shape at the finish than Robinson, who also received 
slight gashes above both optics. 

This was the third go-around for the pair, who claim to hate each 
other, and it also was the best in the series. 

It was in New York in '57 that Fullmer overpowered the Harlem- 
ite for a decision. The Chicago encore went six with a Robinson 
power-packed left hook chilling Fullmer for the first time in his 
career. 

As you sat and watched the sleek Robinson bide his time for 
openings in early rounds tonight, you readily got the idea he was 
waiting and hoping to plant one perfectly timed blow on his charg- 
ing foe's beard. 

Doing nothing more than try to tie his man up in clinches in the 
second and third after grabbing a slight edge in the first round, 
Robinson electrified fans with a brilliant display in the fourth. 

Lowering his sights and driving a right to Fullmer's body after the 
first minute, the Old Master quickly banged two rights to the jaw. 
For the first time the champion seemed in trouble. He didn't move 
back or forward. He was now a sitting duck. 

Howling corner men urged Ray to polish off his foe. Robby 
loaded up a right and let it fly. Fortunately for Fullmer, he dropped 
his head and the payoff blow went whistling past too high. 

There was no question in anyone's mind that the drubbing he had 
taken in the fourth slowed Fullmer to a point where he tried to 
fend off punches in the fifth. 

He knew this 39 year "wash-up" guy still had plenty of life. Gene 
didn't charge in as much or try to batter Robinson's features with 
chopping rights in close as he had in previous sessions. 

Fullmer now employed a different style of attack starting the fifth. 
Before rushing forward he would put his left arm in front of his face 
in an effort to avoid jabs. He did remarkably well until Robinson, 
threading the needle, got a slight opening and drilled a sharp right 
that caught Gene flush on the chin. 

Visions of the Chicago ending in the same round (sixth) probably 
ran through the mind of the man who was striving for the sixth time 
to become a ring king. He unleashed a follow up right uppercut. 
But all it did, even though landing solidly, was to stop Fullmer for a 
brief second. Then Gene roared back at Robinson with his slamming 
antics. 



160 Eddie Muller 

Instead of taking a slight step back as he had many times before, 
a mistake which saw him clipped with long range belts, Fullmer 
now decided to keep on the march. 

Again he went body thumping. Again he didn't give Ray a chance 
to measure, to get leverage or even to protect himself at close 
quarters. 

This was the time many expected Robinson to fade. They thought 
the New Yorker had given his all when he threw those big rights in 
the fourth, fifth and sixth. 

Still on his toes and showing no signs of disintegrating, Robinson 
put combinations together in the eighth despite the fact that Full- 
mer was whacking him down the middle. 

The beginning of the end seemed in sight for Robbie, however, in 
the ninth session. Then the ever-charging, desperate Fullmer really 
put on the pressure. 

Perhaps, he realized, he didn't have the fight sewed up and that 
the one time artist 10 years his elder wasn't crumbling to a point 
where it was too noticeable. So Fullmer turned on the steam with 
his crude, relentless offense, which consisted of an assortment of not 
too well directed punches. They were crude, yes, but when they 
landed they counted. 

The tenth was the same as the ninth, a big Fullmer round. 

Ray's hands weren't up as high as they should be. It could have 
been those body smashes starting to take their toll. Whatever the 
cause Robinson was catching and not pitching in the tenth. 

They were going into the stretch run in the ding-dong duel with 
the start of the nth and we had it a 7-6 edge for Fullmer. 

This is where Fullmer was supposed to come zooming like 
Malicious, the old distance horse, in the stretch. 

It just didn't pan out that way. Getting his second wind, as they 
say in the profession, Robinson went to work like the craftsman of 
old with the outset of the nth. 

He punched first, landed a stinging right uppercut, hurriedly 
came back with two hooks and had Fullmer stumbling and be- 
wildered. A hook opened a cut on Gene's right eye. He was bleeding 
from gashes on both optics. Unlike earlier flurries, the Sugarman 
wasn't waiting for openings. He was making them with feints and 
well placed blows. 

The i2th chapter saw both stand off and go through gestures more 
than actual fighting. It was a rest period, in a sense. Both were sav- 



Dandy and Bully -Boy Draw 161 

ing something for the three remaining sessions, which could deter- 
mine the victor. There was little to choose between them in that 
isth and the igth. 

The explosion occurred in the 14th, with two Robinson rights to 
his foe's whiskers starting the fireworks. Stepping in fast with all 
the strength he could muster at this stage of the beef, Robbie kept 
beating the champ to the punch. Even when he did manage to get 
inside and out of the range of whistling shots aimed for his mussed 
features, Fullmer wasn't able to accomplish much. Ray had enough 
strength to hold him. 

The windup round was more exciting perhaps than some of those 
earlier hair-raisers. 

It was do-or-die for both and they let 'em fly in reckless abandon. 
Once Robinson swayed under a long, clumsy hook to the head. In a 
wild exchange rights were traded evenly, but the Harlemite got the 
range, steadied himself and set in well timed shots that found vul- 
nerable spots. 

Promoted by the Olympic Club and Norman Rothschild, the fight 
drew a gross gate of 1122,584.65, with a paid attendance of 14,455. 

An additional $100,000 was added to whatever the net would be. 
Fullmer got 40 per cent and Robinson 20. 



OLYMPICS 



THE BEST BET THAT LOST 

By Jesse Abramson 

From The New York Herald Tribune 
Copyright, , 1960, The New York Herald Tribune 



John Curtis Thomas was beaten in the Olympics today in the 
most shocking upset the Roman games could produce. 

The world's highest, most consistent, most unruffled, most un- 
beatable leaper, the best bet everyone on the face of the earth con- 
ceded was most likely to win a gold medal here, placed third. 

What's worse, from an American viewpoint in this athletic war, 
the i g-year-old phenom from Cambridge, Mass., was vanquished by 
two Russians, actually tied by a third in the first high jump ever 
contested in which four men cleared 7 feet one quarter inch. 

In a tense and extravagantly melodramatic duel that opened in 
sunshine, carried through deep dusk and reached its throbbing cli- 
max four hours later under the lights of Stadio Olimpico, a 27-year- 
old mustached Russian from Georgia, Robert Shavakadze, mounted 
the victory rostrum as the champion at the Olympic record height 
of 7-1. 

The veteran Georgian, who had never cleared seven feet before 
this day, soared 7-014 on his first try at this height, 7-1 on his third 
try and, in an anti-climax, failed three times at 7-1 ^4, almost getting 
over on his last chance. 

Nineteen year old Valeriy Brumel, a teenager like the Boston U. 
sophomore, also successfully negotiated 7-1 and received the silver 
medal. The rule book settled the tie. He had more misses than his 
Soviet countryman. Similarly Thomas snatched the bronze medal 
from the third Red-shirt, Viktor Bolshov, after both tied at 7-014 on 
their second tries, because the American had fewer attempts in the 
competition. 

To achieve that strategical edge, Thomas astounded a crowd of 
90,000 on a technicality in bypassing his try at 6 feet 1 i 1/ 2 inches 

163 



164 ]esse Abramson 

even though that was the Olympic record set by Charlie Dumas four 
years ago. Dumas, handicapped by a groin muscle injury, failed to 
place, clearing 6-824, passing 6-9 and going out at 6-1014. 

Shavlakadze is the first European to win the high jump (won 1 1 
of 13 times by the U. S.). He is also the first male Russian to win a 
field event in the three Olympics in which the Soviet Union has 
competed. 

Later and far into the Roman night experts were arguing over 
Thomas passing at 6-1114. Was it gamesmanship? One American 
against three Russians, he perhaps was pulling a psychological ma- 
neuver designed to ruffle his foes. He has done this before back 
home where he became the talk of the athletic world by leaping 
7 feet to 7 feet 3^ inches his world record a total of 35 times, 
including 21 straight meets, indoors and out this year. Thomas 
could get away with this bit because he outclassed his opposition 
and made good at the higher heights. 

Thomas has been marked for Olympic glory since as a seventeen- 
year-old freshman he first cleared seven feet in Madison Square 
Garden nineteen months ago. He survived, athletically speaking, an 
elevator accident that crushed his foot and required skin grafting. 
He has cleared 7-1, the height he failed to clear today in three 
hesitant unsure attempts, more than a score of times. Nothing 
seemed to faze him. 

But this is the Olympics and his gamesmanship backfired on him. 
His cocksureness betrayed him as it has many another red-hot 
favorite in the past. Up to 7-1 Thomas took only four jumps in all 
after making the necessary qualifying leap at 6-6 $4 in one shot this 
morning. He sat around as the temperature dropped and the dusk 
gathered until the bar was raised to 6-9, cleared it, cleared 6-101/4, 
passed 6-1 1 1/ 2 , made 7-0 on his second try. 

Though we have seen him jump every 7-footer he has made ex- 
cept one, the dread thought that Thomas was headed for disaster 
took shape as those Russians kept hammering away at him, one 
after another clearing the height, with Thomas jumping last of all 
at every height. 

The downfall of Thomas in his first setback since he first cata- 
pulted to the seven-foot heights overshadowed another defeat for 
the U. S. on this blackest of Thursdays on the worst day our track- 
men have had in the Olympics since they won only one individual 
race on the flat in 1928. 



The Best Bet that Lost 165 

For the first time since then, after winning the 100 meters five 
straight Olympics, the IL S. lost the classic century. Fastest human 
today and the first Olympic loo-meter champion to whom the Eng- 
lish tongue is not native, Germany's highly controversial Armin 
Hary, a Saarlander from Quierschied, flashed to victory by inches 
over red-headed Dave Sime of Fair Lawn, N. J-, as both were 
clocked in 10.2 seconds that equalled Hary's day-old Olympic mark 
set in the quarter finals yesterday. 

Sime had waited four years to make the Olympics after a groin 
muscle pull washed him out in 1 956 when he was shattering one world 
record after another. He barely made the United States team in 
1960 by tying for third and subsequently beating Morgan State's 
Paul Winder for the honor of starting here. Big Dave, who runs so 
powerfully he often tears his muscles loose, gave it the wonderfully 
gallant try as the one American who might hold the fort against 
Hary. 

Running his wrong race since he's better at 200 meters (in which 
he didn't make the American team), Sime ran faster than any man 
ever ran in the Olympic except Hary and couldn't get lucky enough 
to snatch the brass ring on the Roman carousel. It took 10 minutes 
of studying the photo to determine that Hary was the winner, the 
first European sprint winner since England's Harold Abrahams up- 
set Charley Paddock and Co. in Paris in 1924, the first German to 
win a racing title in all Olympic history. 

Hary's triumph was not unexpected. He became the man to beat 
when he became the first man to run 10 flat in the metric century in 
Zurich in June. Scads of skeptics doubted the time because Hary 
beat the gun that day in doing 10 flat and repeated the 10 flat an 
hour later. It was, to repeat, too implausible. The world can still 
doubt Hary can run 10 flat without a lenient starter, but the world 
concedes that Hary is the fastest human, 1960 edition. 

With one false start in the final hanging over his head like the 
Sword of Damocles, since it's two strikes and out in this ball game, 
Hary held his marks, exploded off the blocks from the outside lane 
no faster than anyone else and still won. 

Electrical measuring gadgets have proved that Hary has three 
times faster reactions than normal beings. The laboratory proved 
that first his knees, then his toes, then his fingertips respond to a 
wound, like gunfire, quick as a wink. But it wasn't Hary's super 
reactions but his ability to accelerate faster from 10 yards to 50 than 



166 Jesse Abramson 

any man alive that won for him. The 23-year-old, almost six foot, 
156-pound blond gained a lead of a big yard, held it to 80 yards and 
rebuffed fast finishing Sime as the German mob here chanted "Hary 
Hary Hary" in a reverberating roar. 

The International Amateur Athletic Federation officials refused 
to show the loo-meter photo this isn't Aqueduct but IAAF secre- 
tary Donald Pain of England who had the photo said, "I can tell 
you Hary clearly won it. There was less daylight between Sime and 
Radford than there was between Hary and Sime." 

No one really could tell who won it. I thought, from an angle, 
Hary did, others were as sure Sime got up in the last stride. The first 
evidence came from photographers who surrounded Hary. But they 
also surrounded Barney Ewell at London in 1948 when the photo 
showed Harrison Dillard they also clicked Herb McKenley in 19.52 
at Helsinki when Lucky Lindy Remigino proved more photogenic 
on the official photo. 

And where was Ray Norton, our No. i from Oakland, Gal., Pan- 
American and American 100-200 king? He was dead last in the six- 
man final in 10.4, a favorite who couldn't stand up. He never looked 
like the Norton we've known. He was tight as a drum, fighting him- 
self instead of covering ground with those giant flowing strides of 
his. He barely survived quarter-final and semi-final as third and last 
qualifier. 

Three men were clocked in 10.3 behind Hary and Sime, with the 
bronze medal going to so-year-old Peter Radford from Wolverhamp- 
ton in England's northern midlands, the first native Englishman to 
take a sprint medal in 36 years. Cuba's Enrique Figuerola was placed 
fourth, American Frank Budd, of Villanova, fifth. 

Hary who clocked 10.3 in his semi-final beating Sime and Norton 
was the best and fastest since he started to level in the quarter-finals 
yesterday. 

There was more to this second day of track. The Soviet Union 
swept both gold medals in the women's department. Edvina Ozolina 
set an Olympic record of 183 feet 8 inches in the javelin, with an- 
other Russian third, and Irina Press won the 8o-meter hurdles nar- 
rowly from England's Carole Quinton in 10.8. Dana Zatopkova, wife 
of Emil Zatopek, who swept the five thousand, ten thousand and 
marathon in 1952, placed second in the javelin. She won it in 1948. 

All three of our 4OO-meter hurdles entries qualified for the six-man 
final and no one had faster times than Cliff Cushman, Dickie 



The Best Bet that Lost 167 

Howard and Olympic champion Glenn Davis. Wilma Rudolph of 
Tennessee State's Tiger Belles looked like Jesse Owens winning her 
loo-meter quarter-final and may make up for the loss of the men's 
100. 

But all three American half-milers, having survived two races 
yesterday, were shut out in the 8oo-meter semi-finals. Manhattan's 
Tom Murphy, fastest yesterday with 1:48, ran only a fifth second 
slower than that but ran sixth and dead last, believe it or not, as 
four bettered Tom Courtney's Olympic record of 1 147.7 in his heat. 
George Kerr of the West Indies set the mark. Murphy was fifth at 
400, boxed badly again and this time he never broke loose, couldn't 
whip up a stretch drive. California's Jerry Siebert failed to qualify 
by a yard as New Zealand's Peter Snell took a 1:47.2 heat and Stan- 
ford's Ernie Cunliffe, shifting tactics to a front race, faded to last in 
the same semi. 

For the first time since 1932 we'll win no 800 meter medal, for the 
first time ever we have no 8oo-meter finalist. 



THREE AMERICAN FLAGS WENT UP 
By Si Burick 

From The Dayton Daily News 
Copyright, , 1960, The Dayton Daily News 



The soft shadows of evening were beginning to fall. Quiet gripped 
the Olympic Stadium and the crowd rose as the band played the 
anthem that was to introduce another presentation of medals. 

Out to the center of the greensward marched three exceptional 
physical specimens. The men took their positions on the awards 
podium, each wearing blue sweat clothes marked by the American 
shield. 

Three attractive Italian girls carried three silver trays. There was 
a beautiful medallion on each. 

Now Avery Brundage, the American who presides over the In- 
ternational Olympic federation, walked to the center and took the 
medals off the trays. He hung a chain with a gold medal around the 
neck of deliriously happy Lt. William H. Nieder of the U. S. Army, 
a silver on disappointed Parry O'Brien and a bronze on satisfied 
Dallas Long. 

The Italian band struck up The Star-Spangled Banner and then 
came the most gorgeous moment, from the American viewpoint, of 
the XVII Olympiad. Three American flags went up simultaneously 
on three masts above the vessel where the Olympic flame burns con- 
stantly in the stadium. The flags were raised to three levels. 

This was a moment for lumps in the throats. In front of me, a 
newspaperman of long acquaintance wept unashamedly. 

The USA had achieved the rare but not unprecedented feat of 
sweeping all three medals in a single Olympic event. For Nieder, it 
marked a sudden upsurge from the nadir of despair to these Olym- 
pian heights. The fifth of his six tosses had brought him the shotput 
title with a toss of 19.68 meters or 64 feet, 65^ inches. 

Actually, he was an added starter. He had failed to qualify in July. 
Nieder finished fourth in the tryouts behind Long; O'Brien, champ 
of the Olympic Games in both '52 and '56, and a boy named Dave 
Davis. 

Nieder, second to O'Brien in the 1956 Olympics, continued to 

168 



Three American Flags Went Up 169 

plug along. He had worked hard to make the team but his right 
knee troubled him and his best fell short. He worked yesterday with 
a brace. 

I hopped the athletes' bus from the stadium to the Olympic Vil- 
lage and, by accident, the perspiring new champion came on behind 
rne as the driver was about to close the doors. The lieutenant was 
gurgling with excitement. 

"This was a thrill/' he repeated again and again. "Greatest thing 
that can happen to any man. I mean the greatest. When I broke the 
record in the states at 65 feet-plus, it was nothing like this. Nothing 
like it 

"When that knee went out on me I was sick about it. But Davis 
hurt his wrist and, you won't believe it, but I got my call from the 
Olympic committee to join the squad after my big throw Aug. 12 at 
5 o'clock on the morning of the igth. I got out to that training camp 
in no time." 

He was advised O'Brien had said earlier he would relax com- 
pletely, getting up to eat four meals and spending the rest of the 
time in bed. To O'Brien, training for the shotput is like a heavy- 
weight getting ready for a big fight. 

Nieder said he'd go nuts if he tried to do that. "I don't believe in 
all that bunk," he said. "Three days ago in one of my practice 
efforts I pitched that iron ball 67 feet I knew three American flags 
would go up but I wanted mine on top. 

"When I realized the tallest one really meant me, I really choked 
up." 

It is no secret that there is no mutual admiration where O'Brien 
and Nieder are concerned. "Yes, there's a feud," Bill admitted, "but 
he started it when he was quoted saying I was nothing but a cow 
pasture competitor who couldn't throw when it counted. That got 
under my skin. I had to beat him out there." 

There had been some chilly handshaking among the three medal 
winners after the event and again on the presentation podium. It is 
said that among the shotputters, O'Brien and Nieder never speak 
but Long is neutral, speaks to both but doesn't always get an answer. 

Behind Nieder's 19.68 meters, O'Brien came second with 19.4 or 
62 feet, 8% inches. Long wasn't far behind with 19.01 or 62 feet, 
43/ 8 inches. Each broke O'Brien's former Olympic record of 60 feet, 
11 inches, set in 1956. Parry had hoped to become the first athlete to 
win in three Olympiads. 



170 Si Enrich 

The shotputters, of course, did not bring their own 1 6-pound shots 
with them. Olympic officials provide a choice of brass or iron balls. 
Our boys took iron. 

"Funny thing," said Nieder. "I hate to borrow a ball but maybe 
I should do more of it. Three of the four most important throws I 
ever made came with irons I'd never seen before. This one I'd like 
to keep as another momento of the great day of my life." 



BAREFOOT BOY 

By Allison Danzig 

From The New York Times 
Copyright, , 1960, The New York Times 



A skinny, barefooted palace guard in the Ethiopian Army of King 
Haile Selassie ran the fastest marathon in history tonight. 

A rank outsider who never had run the distance of 26 miles 385 
yards outside his own country, 28-year-old Abebe Bikila won the 
classic race of the Olympic Games over a course rich in history. 

It started at Campidoglio Square, designed by Michelangelo, 
skirted the Circus Maximus and the Baths of Caracalla, went along 
the 2,ooo-year-old Appian Way and ended at the Arch of Con- 
stan tine. 

As the lean, little Ethiopian approached the brilliantly illumi- 
nated arch, close by the ruins of the Forum and Colosseum, thou- 
sands cheered. 

Running strongly, the green-shirted Bikila finished 25.4 seconds 
ahead of favored Abdeslam Rhadi of Morocco. He had held the lead 
with Rhadi from slightly before the halfway mark until he went out 
in front alone with 1,000 meters to go. 

The winning time of 2 hours 15 minutes 15.2 seconds was faster 
than any previously recorded for the marathon. The first ten to 
finish were faster than the previous Olympic best of 2:23:03, run by 
Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia at Helsinki in 1952. 

Because of variations in courses, a world record is not recognized 
for this punishing endurance test. The fastest previous time in a 
marathon was 2:15:17 at Stockholm in 1958 by Sergei Popov of the 
Soviet Union, the co-favorite here with Rhadi. Popov finished fifth, 
behind a countryman, Konstantin Voroblev. 

On this last full day of Olympic competition, the United States 
won the basketball championship, as expected, by beating Brazil, 
90 to 63. 

The Soviet Union won four gold medals in men's gymnastics, 
three by Boris Shakhlin. He had won a gold medal previously, and 

171 



172 Allison Danzig 

his total of four made him the leading gold medal winner of these 
Games. 

Japan won three gold medals and Finland one on the dosing 
program in gymnastics. Australia won both the team and individual 
gold medals in the three-day equestrian event. 

Yugoslavia defeated Denmark, 3 to i, in the soccer final. Hungary 
triumphed in team saber fencing. Peter Kohnke of Germany won 
the gold medal in small-bore rifle shooting from the prone position, 
with Jim Hill of Oceanside, Calif., second. 

Yuri Vlasov of the Soviet Union won the final event of the day, 
heavyweight weight lifting, and set a world record of 1,1821/2 
pounds. Jim Bradford of Washington was second and Norbert 
Schemensky of Dearborn, Mich., third. 

The Russians ended the day leading the United States in gold 
medals, 43 to 34. The unofficial point leaders, according to The 
Associated Press, were the Soviet Union with 807 1/ and the United 
States with 559^. 

The Games will conclude tomorrow with the Prix des Nations 
equestrian jumping competition. Gold medals are at stake for team 
and individual competition. Then will come the closing ceremonies. 

The marathon was close until near the finish. 

In third place in the marathon was Barry Magee, the third mem- 
ber of New Zealand's entry. He had come from eighth to third at 
25,000 meters and stayed there all the way in. 

He drew closer and closer until less than a minute and a half 
separated him and the leaders. But he faded a bit in the last 2,000 
meters as the 1 25-pound Bikila and the taller, i43~pound Rhadi 
finished strong. Magee was 2 minutes 2 seconds behind the winner. 

Vorobiev, who was not among the first ten until near the end of 
the race, was 75 yards back of Magee. Popov, who drew up to fourth 
place at 25,000 meters, was close on the heels of his teammate. 

Popov was followed by Thyge Torgerson of Denmark, smiling 
behind his glasses as he ran down the lane of applauding thousands 
under powerful floodlights. Then came another barefoot Ethiopian, 
Wargira Abebe. 

In eighth place was Benaiisa Baki of Morocco. Osvaldo Suarez of 
Argentina, which had the winner in 1932 and 1948, was ninth. 

The first American to finish was John J. Kelley, the Groton 
(Conn.) schoolteacher, rated as the strongest American contender 
since Johnny Hayes won at London in 1908 after Pietro Dorando 



Barefoot Boy 173 

of Italy was disqualified. Kelley was nineteenth. Lieut. Alex Breck- 
enridge of the United States Marine Corps was thirtieth and Gordon 
McKenzie of the Bronx forty-eighth. 

Never before had an Olympic marathon, or probably any other, 
been run over a course so steeped in ancient lore. Nor had any other 
been run in the evening or failed to start and finish in the main 
stadium. 

The Italian organizing committee staged this one as the classic 
of all marathons since Pheidippides the Greek brought the tidings 
of the defeats of the Persians from Marathon to Athens 2,550 years 
ago and then fell lifeless. 

The course began at Capitol Hill, Campidoglio, the magnificent 
square dominated by the equestrian statue of Emperor Marcus 
Aurelius. There was a mob scene at the starting point, at the foot 
of the stairs, with thousands of onlookers jamming the road and cars 
and buses trying to get through. 

It took frantic exertions by David Lord Burghley and other com- 
mitteemen to get the crowd pushed back so the runners would have 
enough room. The police were not much help. 

The course followed along the Forum, Triumphal Way, Theatre 
of Marcellus, Circus Maximus and Baths of Caracalla to broad 
Cristoforo Colombo Avenue. 

As they ran along Cristoforo Colombo, the runners passed beauti- 
ful and modern new apartments, the National Art Museum and 
Palazzo dello Sport, where the basketball games are held. 

They were headed in the direction of Naples, and then they took 
a fork toward Lidio d'Ostia until they came to Raccordo Anulare, a 
peripheral road around the city. They went on for two miles and 
then returned to Raccordo Anulare. 

They were now at the midway point of the race. They turned at 
right angles on Raccordo Anulare and proceeded six miles until 
they turned left into the famed Appian Way. There were now a 
little more than six miles remaining. 

The Appian Way, started by Appius Claudius in 312 B.C., is so 
narrow that cars can scarcely pass each other. It is lined with stately 
cypress trees and secular pines. On each side are ruins of tombs and 
villas of ancient Romans, some of these ruins massive in size, and 
dominating them were steel towers to carry power lines for the tele- 
vising of the marathon. The sides of the road were thick with trucks, 
cameras, lights and other television apparatus. 



174 Allison Danzig 

Along six and a half miles of the Appian Way, runners passed the 
catacombs of St. Sebastian and St. Callisto, then reached St. Sebastian 
Gate, the end of the ancient road. Then they reached the Church 
of Quo Vadis and Piazzale Numa Pompilio, and the end was near 
as they came to Vial dello Terme de Caracalla. 

The Arch of Constantine was straight ahead, with Palatine Hill 
on the left and the Colosseum and old Roman Forum just beyond. 

Stands were erected for the last quarter-mile of the race. Many 
seats were empty, but thousands stood to get a cheaper view and 
thousands of others were gathered beyond the Arch of Constantine. 

They could not see anything, but they wanted to be near the 
spectacular setting for the finish. The police had a job to keep them 
behind the barriers when the cheering began for the first runner to 
come in sight, Bikila. 

Bikila was not up with the leaders in the first 5,000 meters of the 
race. But at 10,000 he was in third place. Allah Saoudi of Morocco 
had gone ahead of Arthur Keily of Britain in first place and Rhadi, 
who had been second, dropped back. 

At 15,000 meters, Keily was back in the lead, followed by Aur 
Vandendriessche of Belgium, Rhadi and Bikila. At 20,000 meters, as 
the runners turned right into Raccordo Anulare, Rhadi and Bikila 
were in front together and they stayed there to the end. 

Along Appian Way, Rhadi and Bikila ran shoulder to shoulder, 
with Magee 2 minutes 23 seconds behind them, then 2:02 behind at 
the 37 ; ooo-meter mark. With 2,000 meters remaining of the 42,195- 
meters distance, the Moroccan and Ethiopian were still neck and 
neck. Magee was 1:26 behind. 

With only 1,000 meters left, Bikila drew away. He ran so strongly 
that he was soon eight seconds ahead of Rhadi, and McGee began to 
fall back. The barefooted Ethiopian's sprint was too much for 
Rhadi, and he won going away all the way to the Arch of Con- 
stantine. 



THE MOST EXCITING FIVE MINUTES 
By Tex Maule 

From Sports Illustrated 
Copyright, , 1960, Sports Illustrated 



His strong, cold face impassive, the big man pounded steadily 
through the dank chill of the Roman night. Two steps in front of 
him, Formosa's Chuan Kwang Yang moved easily. In the gap be- 
tween them lay the Olympic decathlon championship. 

Four other men were in the race, but none of the 50,000 people 
huddled against the cold in Rome's Stadio Olimpico saw them. 
They watched Rafer Johnson and Yang in their lonely, desperate 
race against time and each other, and as the race spun on and on 
they began to yell. 

Johnson, his eyes fixed on the back of Yang's neck, did not hear 
them. To win this decathlon championship, he had to push his big, 
magnificently muscled body through the fastest 1,500 meters of his 
life. Yang usually is 10 seconds better than Johnson in the 1,500; 
he had only to maintain this margin to win an Olympic gold medal. 

Watching, knowing Johnson's limitations in this race, you kept 
expecting that two-step gap to widen. But Johnson has a relentless 
pride that goads him far beyond the limits of normal human en- 
deavor, and now that pride kept him plodding doggedly behind 
Yang, a bigger, darker shadow of the handsome Chinese. 

On the last lap Yang tried desperately to move away. He man- 
aged a slow sprint down the backstretch, and Johnson moved 
easily with him. He kicked again off the turn into the last straight, 
and Johnson kept pace. The exhausted Yang's head wobbled. Once, 
despairingly, he looked back, and Johnson was still there; and he 
was there at the finish, 1.2 seconds behind Yang. Johnson ran this 
1,500 meters (in 4:49.7) at the end of two days of extraordinary tax- 
ing competition, six seconds faster than he has ever run before in 
his life. He finished the tensest five minutes of the entire Games 
five minutes in which the tension grew and grew and grew until 
it seemed like a thin, high sound in the stadium composed and 
relaxed and almost fresh. 



176 Tex Maule 

"Victory makes you forget you're tired," he said. He is a digni- 
fied, careful man, and he speaks carefully. "I always knew I would 
win. I didn't know when, but I knew I would. I knew I could stay 
with Yang no matter how fast he ran. I had to." 

Yang, a UCLA student who has trained for two years with John- 
son under UCLA's fine coach Ducky Drake, was resigned. "I knew 
he would win," Yang said. "He is that way. I have trained with him. 
I heard him there behind me and I knew he would win." 

Johnson's point total, 8,392, was well below the world record 
he set in the U. S. Olympic trials, principally because of very poor 
performance in the high hurdles and mediocre ones in the jave- 
lin and discus. But in two of the last three events, under strong 
pressure from Yang, he produced career bests in both the pole 
vault and the 1,500 meters. 

"All I could think of in that 1,500 meters was 'this is the last race 
111 ever run in my life/ " he said later. He was preparing to leave 
the stadium, tired now, let down from the strain. Someone asked 
him if he were going to catch up on his sleep. 

"No," said Johnson quietly. "Not right away. I don't think so. 
First I'm going to walk and walk and look at the moon and think 
about it." 

The tension that finally left Johnson limp at the end of the de- 
cathlon was the keynote of the closing days of the Olympic track 
and field competition. Otis Davis, who won the 4oo-meter run for 
the U. S. in a world-record time of 44.9, said, "I felt weak from it. 
Bill Bowerman, my coach at Oregon, told me before the finals I 
could run 45 flat but I didn't believe him. You said in SPORTS 
ILLUSTRATED I didn't have any sense of pace, and I've been 
working on it and I was determined, but I felt the pressure." 

Davis paced himself beautifully in his final. Carl Kaufmann, the 
very strong, very fast German quarter miler, took an early lead, 
but Davis running with a neat, economical stride, floated down the 
backstretch, saving himself. In the turn, he kicked suddenly and 
strongly and passed Kaufmann, coming into the home-stretch with 
a three-yard lead. Kaufmann furiously closed the gap to a yard, then 
lunged at the tape and hit it with his chin. But Davis' chest was 
over the line first and he won. It was a photo finish, and the two 
athletes sat nervously, waiting for the verdict. When Davis was 
told he had won, he leaped high in the air, danced crazily a mo- 



The Most Exciting Five Minutes 177 

ment, then wept copiously. Kaufmann walked over and shook his 
hand. 

The big crowd for this day's program at the lovely Stadio Olim- 
pico had hardly finished buzzing about the world record in the 400 
meters when Herb Elliott, the superbly conditioned Australian 
world-record holder in the mile, gave them another record. Elliott, 
running against the world's premier middle-distance men in the 
1,500 meters, made the rest of the field look like a different breed 
of human being. 

After the race his coach, Percy Cerutty, not a modest chap, ex- 
plained Elliott's speed. "Here, now/' he said to Roger Bannister, the 
world's first sub-four-minute miler. "Here is how you used to run." 
Cerutty shambled off, running with all the grace of a spavined 
plow horse, his slight body ridiculous, the bright eyes watching 
Bannister as he performed the travesty of Bannister's style. "Now," 
he said coming back, puffing slightly. "Here is how I have Herb 
run, with the grace of an animal." He set off again, not quite as 
awkwardly, lunging with his arms. He came back, puffing harder, 
"See the difference?" he asked. "Much better style. Pulls with the 
arms. I'll show you again. This time I'll run like you did until I go 
round that little bush, then I'll run like Herb." He set off again, 
changing styles dramatically as he passed the little bush. Said Ban- 
nister, dryly, "I must say I find myself hard to recognize in Percy." 

Elliott's race was one of the few won easily. Only America's lovely, 
graceful girl sprinter, Wilma Rudolph, seemed so clearly the best 
in her field as Elliott in his. She was the only athlete in the track 
and field competition to win three gold medals in the 100 and 200 
meters and in the sprint relay. She is a quiet girl who became even 
quieter under the stress of sudden fame. Probably the hardest 
worker on the women's team, she had little time for social life, 
confining her dates to a few with Ray Norton. ("Nothing serious," 
Norton says. "She's a sprinter and I'm a sprinter, so naturally we're 
friends.") 

After her victories in the two sprints, Wilma anchored the 
U. S. women's team to a world record (44.4) in the relay. She took 
the baton even with the second-place German girl. Then, long 
bronze legs flashing in the straight-up, graceful stride that reminds 
you of Dave Sime, she moved away easily. Someone asked a French 
photographer near the finish line, "Who won?" "La Gazelle, na- 
turellement," he said. "La Chattanooga choo-choo." 



178 Tex Maule 

Wilma, who has the carriage "a queen should have/' as an Eng- 
lish writer said, is all the more remarkable because she was crippled 
by a childhood illness and was in bed from the time she was 4 until 
she was 8. She is one of 19 children, from very poor parents. Her 
father is an invalid and her mother takes in laundry and does 
day work to support the family. Wilma was discovered by Tennes- 
see State Coach Ed Temple. She cannot explain her extraordinary 
ability. "I just run," she says. "I don't know why I run so fast." A 
good deal of the credit must go to Temple, who is responsible for 
the fine program at Tennessee State. The U. S. women's relay team 
is, in fact, the Tiger Belles the Tennessee State team. Like Wilma, 
they all seemed impervious to the extreme pressure of Olympic 
competition. 

Not so Norton, the most unfortunate man in the Games. After 
finishing sixth in both sprints, Norton took a baton pass from 
starter Frank Budd out of the passing zone in the finals of the sprint 
relay, and the U. S. team, winner by a yard over Germany, was 
disqualified. The bad pass was not Norton's fault; he started as 
Budd's foot hit the starting mark. But Norton, who was flat, stale 
and tense from overwork in the sprints, was fresh and strong for 
this race, and Budd was fading a bit. Norton flashed away too fast 
for Budd to catch. Budd yelled, "Wait!" desperately, and Norton 
came to a halt, but he was out of the zone. 

The time of the American team (394) would have been a new 
world, record. Said a bitter, sad Norton later, "Finally I did every- 
thing right and still everything went wrong. What can you do?" 

The American i,6oo-meter relay team, on the other hand, in the 
most intelligently run, esthetically satisfying race of the Olympics, 
set a world record which will stand. The four Americans solemn 
Jack Yerman, ig-year-old, somewhat frightened Earl Young, Glenn 
Davis, surely the finest competitor in the Olympics, and 4oo-meter 
champion Otis Davis faced a strong challenge from an excellent 
German team. Each leg of the race had to be run properly and at 
optimum speed, and the Americans produced exactly what was 
needed. 

Yerman, running solidly and carefully, picked up a yard lead over 
George Kerr, who opened for the British West Indies team, and 
two over the German lead-off man. The Germans planned to attack 
over the next two legs against the inexperienced Young and 
against Glenn Davis. They sent Manfred Kinder, who placed fifth 



The Most Exciting Five Minutes 179 

in the 400 in 45.9, against Young, who had finished sixth in the same 
race. Young, running with considerable aplomb, ignored Kinder's 
challenge on the backstretch, floating along easily with his long 
stride. Kinder was ahead going into the turn. Then Young spurted, 
took the lead down the stretch and gave Davis a two-yard edge. 

Glenn, running against Johannes Kaiser, took it easy, running 
with his own air of sprightly confidence. Kaiser pulled up on him 
quickly, ran a step behind, then made his bid as they reached the 
back turn. 

"I wanted him to do that," Davis explained later. "I took it easy 
so he would use up his strength catching me on the backstretch. 
I expected him to come up on my shoulder. They thought I would 
be open and he would go right by. When he came up, I carried 
him wide. Then, when he relaxed, I kicked and opened up the 
lead I wanted." 

Glenn built that lead to four yards by the time he handed off 
to Otis Davis, who was matched with Kaufmann, the man who had 
finished an eyelash second to him in the 400. Otis became a cagey 
runner very quickly under the stress of Olympic competition. He 
played with Kaufmann much as Kuts did with Gordon Pirie in 
the io,ooo-meter run at Melbourne. "I just learned how to run in 
the last couple of races," Otis said. "I accelerated a little to make 
Kaufmann use his strength to catch me, then I floated. When he 
came up, I'd accelerate again, then float again. I figured he'd use 
up his power trying to catch me each time, then I'd turn on the 
kick and walk away." 

Otis turned on the kick coming out of the turn and did, indeed, 
walk away. He ran the anchor lap in 44.4 seconds, gaining a yard 
on Kaufmann, who ran 44.5. The Americans' time, 3:05.2, broke 
the world record of 3:03.9 set by Jamaica at Helsinki in 1952. 

There were, of course, other American victories, but none as 
satisfying as this. Al Oerter ("I was so tense I could barely throw") 
won the discus, with Rink Babka second and Dick Cochran a sur- 
prising third. Don Bragg ("My legs trembled and I got blisters") 
set an Olympic record in the pole vault, with Ron Morris second. 

And there were two sixth-place finishers who give promise for 
American medals in Tokyo in 1964. Dyrol Burleson set an American 
record in the 1,500 behind Elliott, and little Max Truex ran the 
10,000 meters 45 seconds faster than he ever had before to place 
sixth in his race. 



i8o Tex Maule 

Max, who worked out for two weeks here with Mihaly Igloi, the 
Hungarian expatriate who coaches the Santa Clara Valley Youth 
team, exuded confidence the next day. 

"I'm going to work with Igloi for the next four years," Max 
said. "Then comes Tokyo/' 



RACING 



"GET-WELL" HORSES 

By Bob Barnet 

From The Muncie Star 
Copyright, , 1960, The Muncie Star 



The race program was yellowed and old and there on the last 
page, his name lovingly encircled in pencil, was Cross Ruff. 

How is that, neighbor? You never heard of Cross Ruff? How 
about Witan, and Leading Article, and Sparklee and Cerberus? 
And what of Sanctity and Transit Lady and Credulous? They are 
also strangers, you say? 

Ah, friend, you have my pity. These were race horses, noble 
steeds one and all, my band of equine immortals, my treasures, 
my true defenders against the ravages of hunger and want. 

In the mad, merry days of my youth, these were my "get-well" 
horses. 

And you would press me further with ill-conceived queries? 
"What is a 'get-well' horse?" you ask? It is plain that you have 
never reached the eighth race, weary of limb and sick of heart, 
eyes dimmed by the demands of the agate type of the Daily Racing 
Form, and with naught between you and Debtor's Prison but a few 
win tickets for the final contest of speed and stamina. 

A "get-well" horse is one who arrives for you at such a moment, 
a horse who comes charging to the finish line with nostrils flaring 
and mane streaming in the wind, a clean-limbed beauty whose 
$1,500 claiming price tag is hardly visible through the tears of 
admiration (and thanksgiving) that dim adoring eyes. 

That's a "get-well" horse, friend, and I have had my share. As 
this year slips away I salute them once again and once again this 
yellowed program returns to its place of honor in the desk drawer. 

You never heard of Cross Ruff? 

Sir, I would have you know that on this sunny afternoon at 
River Downs race track in Cincinnati, Ohio, in the year of our 

181 



i8s Bob Barnet 

Lord 1935, this fleet representative of the best in American horse- 
breeding not only won but paid $1240 for $2! 

What do you want from a horse? 

While I have loved them through the years with a breathless 
passion, I must confess that my darlings are an humble lot. Indeed 
they were for the most part cheap, bad-legged beasties who ran 
in the eighth races at the lesser race tracks. There is not a Ken- 
tucky Derby winner among them, nor even a handicapper. 

They lived and ran their races and then passed on, but on many 
occasions they brought gladness to my heart as they conquered 
similarly humble foemen to make good the win tickets I clutched 
so tightly. 

They ran for me on those old, tired legs, and won for me, and 
I am grateful. 

There was Witan, a son of Wise Counsellor who must have been 
suckled on diluted clay, because when the track was a brown rib- 
bon of gumbo no hoof-tossed muck befouled the gaudy raiment of 
Witan's rider. When it came up mud, my Witan led all the rest. 
Rest his soul! 

Sparklee, long-since dead in a stable fire at Louisville, fought 
for me grimly in many a bitter stretch duel, and rarely surrendered. 
Cerberus bore the name of a dog, but he was a champion of cham- 
pions when he led them home to send me to the pay-off window. 
Credulous was quick to make me a believer. 

Some of them lived and died in the ranks of the claimers. Few 
of my favorites ever were listed in a feature race, even at a small 
track. 

But when I needed for them to win they won, and I have 
never forgotten. 

No man of intelligence wagers more at a race track than he can 
afford to spend for an afternoon of entertainment, and to the true 
horse-player money is of no great importance. 

A man needs to win now and then, at a horse track or in the many 
other forms of competition devised for him by a stern fate. 

It is not good to lose too often, just as it is not good for a man 
always to win. Here my beauties came willingly to my assistance. 
They raised my spirit from the dust, and caused my heart to sing. 

The money? Give it to the poor! Just give me a winner now and 
then to rebuild my shattered ego and to convince me that I am 
indeed a horse-player of amazing wisdom. 



"Get-Well" Horses 183 

The road to happiness is long at a horse-park when they don't 
come home as they should, and as the late races approach the weary 
fighter with the crumpled dope sheet echoes the anguished cry of 
Richard III: "Give me another horse bind up my wounds!" 

Just any horse, that is, even "a dark horse that had never been 
thought of." 

Literature abounds with tributes to this courageous creature, 
and perhaps William Wordsworth, a man who lived from 1770 to 
1850 and who never once attended the races at River Downs or 
Sunshine Park, said it best when he wrote: "There's something in 
a flying horse/' 

Shakespeare mentioned the equine often, and with much affec- 
tion, although in "Merchant of Venice" he wrote with some reser- 
vations of one character: "He does nothing but talk of his horse." 

There are horses and horses, and James Smith (1775-1839), 
must have backed more than his share of losers the day he wrote 
this verse: 

"I saw them go; one horse was blind, 
The tails of both hung down behind, 

Their shoes were on their feet 

Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait." 

I have had my share of the lax ones, but I have had my eighth- 
race rescue horses, too. 

A man who obviously respected horses but not tax-collectors was 
Sydney Smith (1769-1845), who wrote: "The beardless youth man- 
ages his taxed horse with a taxed bridle on a taxed road. . ." 

Who could better describe the progress of the modern thorough- 
bred from starting gate to finish line? Mr. Smith would have been 
even more wrathful had he ever found it necessary to hurl his in- 
tellect against the 18 per cent subtracted by those frowning men 
of iron, the pari-mutuel machines. 

While normal racing programs arrange for a pause of from 20 
to 30 minutes between races, there is rarely time for the veteran 
punter to survey his tattered collection of information and make 
a proper selection. 

As was the case in Richard III, he cries out: "Hark, the shrill 
trumpet sounds to horse." 

"Hold! Wait!" the harassed bettor pleads, but they do not wait. 

All who find harmless recreation and inhale fine, fresh air at race 



184 Bob Barnet 

tracks, are well aware that it is madness to forsake a horse that 
has once been chosen as a probable winner. 

A man named A. Lincoln, replying to the National Union 
League on June 9, 1864, spoke for this harried array when he said, 
"It is not best to swap horses while crossing the river." 

Here is truth in its purest form, and every horse-player knows 
that it is far better, while crossing the river to drown! 

And so again I call forth my beauties in a ghostly parade to the 
post Witan, Cross Ruff, Sparklee, Leading Article, Cerberus, Tran- 
sit Lady, Credulous, Sanctity. . . 

It is my fondest hope that they gambol in the pastures of some 
equine Valhalla alongside the Byerly Turk, Ten Broeck, Hindoo, 
unbeaten Colin, Man o' War, and game old Exterminator. 

They deserve for stablemates great Bucephalus, the Thracian 
charger who bore Alexander of Macedon to the mastery of the 
world, as well as the noble but nameless beast who carried stern 
Caesar across all three parts of Gaul, and sturdy Comanche, who 
survived the horror of the Little Big Horn. 

What, my beauties? They won't allow you in the same paddock 
with such as these? 

Surely there has been a mistake. I will speak to someone in au- 
thority when I arrive. Patience, now. 

Humble, sore-legged animals you may have been, cheap horses 
running at cheap race tracks, but you were horses of rare courage 
and there were days when winged Pegasus could not have matched 
your swiftness. 

I have loved you all. 



BARGAIN BABY 

By Nelson Fisher 

From The San Diego Union 
Copyright, , 1960, Union-Tribune Publishing Co. 



Venetian Way, a $10,500 bargain baby and virtually a forgotten 
colt in the din of adulation paid Tompion and Bally Ache, supplied 
the $14.60 upset of the 86th Kentucky Derby today at Churchill 
Downs. 

Before a chilled crowd of probably 75,000, the trim chestnut dug 
through an officially "good" track, still wet and sticky from over- 
night rain, in a three and one-half length flourish of superiority 
over second-favored Bally Ache. 

Victoria Park, the Canadian contender, drove to third money a 
remote seven and one-half lengths back, himself outfinishing the 
even-money favored Tompion two and one-quarter lengths. 

The others were strung out another 50 lengths to Henrijan, in-out 
and in-again Californian who completely exhausted himself try- 
ing to match Bally Ache's speed through the resisting surface. 

Venetian Way accomplished the mile and one quarter in 2:02 2- 
5, exceptionally good time for the off track, and his prices across 
the boards were $14.60, $4.60 and $3.40. 

A month and a week ago, the Kentucky-bred and Chicago-owned 
Venetian Way had served warning of his prowess in running Bally 
Ache to a nose in the Florida Derby. 

Under a faultless ride by Bill Hartack, the son of Royal Coinage- 
Firefly made it stick today. Bally Ache caught him after he took a 
brief command in Florida but today, Venetian Way drew away 
with conviction to earn $114,850 first money for owner Isaac Blum- 
berg, Chicago manufacturer of heavy machinery who races under 
the nomme de course of the Sunny Blue Farm. 

Just a week ago Venetian Way tried Bally Ache in the seven-fur- 
long Stepping Stone Purse at Churchill Downs and finished second. 
The track was declared "good" that day but it was considerably 
more soaked than today, with pools standing on the inside down 
the backstretch where Venetian Way tried to move through on 
Bally Ache. 

185 



i86 Nelson Fisher 

As the wide spaces between the horses attested, there was scant 
excuse for any contender. Certainly none for Bally Ache, who got 
his position and had a type of track he appeared to relish a week 
ago but simply lacked a rally in that crucial last eighth of a mile. 

While Bally Ache was taking all the run out of the cold-con- 
gested Henrijan, jockey Hartack kept Venetian Way in a good chal- 
lenging position, under strong restraint back in fourth and then 
third position. 

Nor did Tornpion, the i2th disappointment for C. V. Whitney, 
who hasn't yet been able to win a Derby, have the breath of an ex- 
cuse. Jockey Bill Shoemaker thrust him into a close third position 
by the time the field hit the first turn. Passing the half-mile pole, 
Shoemaker asked Tompion to run. He spurted closer for three or 
four strides, then fell back steadily, as if he wanted no part of the 
off-track. 

Curving into the second turn, it was strictly a two-horse race, 
Bally Ache and Venetian Way, and when they leaned into the home 
stretch Hartack let out another notch and Venetian Way moved in 
front and widened the margin slowly but surely. 

Both riders, Bob Ussery on Bally Ache and Hartack on Vene- 
tian Way, went to the whip and it was Venetian Way who responded 
while Bally Ache tried gamely but simply had little left. 

The one question hanging over Bally Ache, a colt of sprint heri- 
tage, bought for $2,500, was whether he could handle the champion- 
ship mile and one-quarter distance. The answer was convincing 
that he couldn't today. 

Venetian Way, a chestnut colt, was foaled at the Glencrest Farm 
of breeder J. W. Greathouse near Midway, Ky., a farm that pro- 
duced its first Derby winner today. 

Owner Blumberg plucked him out of the 1958 Lexington summer 
sales for $10,500 and, under training of Vic Sovinski, a husky fellow 
who also happens to be one of racing's best bowlers, he developed 
into a champion of the Washington Park Futurity, in which he 
whipped the same Bally Ache so highly regarded over him today. 

Venetian Way has been a financial bonanza for the Sunny Blue 
Farm, winning 1141,902 last year and $23,275 this year before taking 
the Derby jackpot. The victory was his sixth in 15 starts. 

For jockey Hartack, it was a second Kentucky Derby victory, for 
it was he who drove Calumet Farms' Iron Liege up for the precious 
nose decision over Gallant Man in 1957, t ^e famous year of jockey 



Bargain Baby 187 

Shoemaker's miscalculation of the line of finish. He raised for a 
fraction of a second in the saddle in the very shadow of the wire. 

Sunny Blue Farm had a fine derby horse in Lincoln Road two 
years ago, but he came along at the same time as one of Calumet 
Farm's best colts, Tim Tam, and had to settle for second. Lincoln 
Road was trainer Sovinski's only previous contender in a Ken- 
tucky Derby. 



BASKETBALL 



"THE DAY SING SING LICKED US" 

By Edwin M, Barton 

From Coronet 
Copyright, , 1960, Esquire, Inc. 



The finest basketball player I have ever seen was a stumpy, 
courageous, unknown convict at Sing Sing Prison. For one unfor- 
gettable afternoon, his brilliant play pierced the gray gloom of the 
"Big House" and brought hardened prisoners out of their seats 
cheering and even weeping, stirred by a college spirit few had 
ever known. Singlehandedly, he defeated my team an all-star squad 
from the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons 
but I would not trade that one defeat for all our victories. The 
story began six years ago, when I became Student Activities Di- 
rector at the Columbia medical school. Our basketball captain, 
Howard Nay, urged me to schedule tougher opponents. "The boys 
would like more of a fight," he said. The request prompted a 
major change in our policy. For the first time, we played against 
sterner, non-medical school competition. Even so, we won with 
monotonous ease except for one game. The Sing Sing team held us 
to a slim six-point margin, our closest call in years. 

After the game, Gerald Curtin, the Sing Sing coach and recrea- 
tion director, approached me. "How about a rematch next year?" 
he asked. "We still think we can beat you especially since most 
of our starters will still be with us next seasonl" 

I called a team meeting and found that the boys were all for 
another game with Sing Sing. 

For one thing, they enjoyed the unique experience of penetrat- 
ing the forbidden and mysterious prison walls. They also believed 
that as student doctors they were helping troubled men by pro- 
viding them with an afternoon of lively recreation. 

Once inside Sing Sing, vigilant guards treat even young visiting 
athletes as potential security risks. Before being loaded into a 

189 



igo Edwin M. Barton 

windowless "paddy Wagon" for the short ride to the gym, they are 
searched thoroughly, and any metal object sharper than a cigarette 
lighter must be checked at the gatehouse. Then a guard asks for 
silence and delivers a short speech. 

"I am the sergeant assigned to your supervision while you are 
inside the Prison," he says. "You are in my custody until you are 
checked back through the gate to the outside. Do not do anything 
without my specific permission. While you are playing, bear in 
mind that these men are convicted criminals. If you should see 
anyone you recognize, do not speak with him. During the game, do 
not talk with players except where it pertains to the game, and 
keep such conversation to technical basketball language/' 

With this, he signals the gateman in the tower, and the team is 
let through two successive steel gates. The last gate opens only 
wide enough to allow one man at a time to pass through, and on 
the other side the players are herded into the wagon, with a guard 
on each side. 

In a few minutes, the truck backs up to the door of a large 
building. The guards step out and motion for the players to follow. 
All hustle directly into the building, through a door leading di- 
rectly to the visiting team's dressing room. Again, the visitors are 
counted, and two guards remain with them as they put on their 
uniforms. 

As our team trotted on court, I shook hands with Coach Curtin. 
As we chatted, he pointed to one of his Sing Sing players, a stocky 
fellow of about 25 who was shooting baskets at the far end of the 
court. "That's Corwin/' Gerry told me. "He gets out tomorrow 
after serving a term for burglary. Two years ago, when he came 
to me, he had never played basketball. But he stuck with the game 
and worked up to a varsity position. Now I believe he's going to be 
all right on the outside. We won't be seeing him here again." 
Curtin smiled with satisfaction. 

Just before the opening whistle, I called my players together. 
"Run up a quick lead so we can take it easy in the second half," 
I told them. 

In accordance with our strategy, we rolled up 14 quick points to 
Sing Sing's two a basket by Corwin. But the prison's players 
were beginning to recover from our opening attack. Corwin and 
their tall, red-headed center, Craft, began to find the range. By the 
end of the first quarter, our lead had been cut to four points. 



"The Day Sing Sing Licked Us" 191 

Shortly before the half-time intermission, Corwin dribbled through 
our whole team and curled in yet another driving basket. Abruptly 
the Scoreboard was changed to: Home 26; Visitors 25. 

Normally, Sing Sing prisoners cheer for a good play or shot. 
They are not team conscious, however. But now a ripple of interest 
swept the stands. There was still little fervent cheering; the change 
was subtler and unique to Sing Sing. 

High above the grandstand is the Scoreboard. At floor level 
at the same end of the gymnasium is a huge blackboard with the 
word VISITORS in box-car letters. As messages are received that 
a prisoner has a visitor, the inmate's number is written on the 
blackboard. When a number went up, the designated man would 
leave for a rare visit with someone from the outside. But when 
Gorwin sank the shot that put his team ahead, priority visibly 
shifted from the visitors' board to the Scoreboard. 

By this time, I sensed that my team was in trouble. Our rigorous 
medical-school work schedule precludes long practice sessions 
that would keep the team in top physical condition. Obviously, 
Gerry Curtin had schooled his players to run us into the floor. At 
the half, we were 1 1 points behind. Still, I had no doubt that after 
a rest we could regain the lead. 

But as I returned to my seat in the gym after the intermission, 
I felt it would be almost impossible to root against Corwin, who 
not only was a magnificent player but a good sport. Not once dur- 
ing the hard-fought first half did he fail to have a smile on his face. 
He addressed himself to the contest as though it was a privilege 
to play. Although there was fierce, unavoidable body contact, he 
never complained and often helped a fallen opponent to his feet. 
To beat Sing Sing, I knew we must stop the relentless attack of 
this smiling convict but my heart wasn't in it. 

"Corwin is just great this year," I told Coach Curtin as our paths 
crossed going to our respective benches. "I remember him from a 
year ago, and I've never seen an athlete develop so fast." 

"We're lucky he's here today," answered Curtin. "He didn't want 
to play because he gets out tomorrow, and if he got badly banged up 
in the game, he might not be in shape to leave." But Corwin had 
decided to play. He wanted to help his team beat us something 
that they had never done before and he wanted to show his appre- 
ciation to Gerald Curtin, who had helped him find satisfaction in 
grueling discipline and honest achievement. 



192 Edwin M. Barton 

Early in the third period, we edged in front once again, but from 
then on the lead changed hands with every basket. Desperately, I 
made frequent substitutions in an effort to keep my team fresh. But 
Corwin remained in the Sing Sing line-up, apparently tireless and 
releasing bull's-eye shots despite the most careful guarding. 

I could hardly believe my eyes. Corwin's legs were knotted and 
discolored by varicose veins. His calf muscles were lumped up in one 
spot, his locomotion was uneven and his pivoting jerky and awk- 
ward His dribbling or shooting seemingly qualified him. for an 
intramural basketball team and no more. Yet here he was leading a 
group of mediocre players in a nip-and-tuck duel with one of the 
fine graduate school teams in the Ivy League. 

With ten minutes to go, the game was still in doubt. I put our 
first-string team back into the game, hoping that Charlie Bucknam, 
who had been an all-star player at Bates College, could stop Corwin's 
spectacular play. Bucknam had scored 34 points against Sing Sing 
the year before. But Corwin promptly went on a fantastic scoring 
spree. His teammates fed him the ball constantly, and he never 
seemed to miss. Inexorably, Sing Sing forged further and further 
ahead. 

With one minute to go, Coach Curtin finally sent in a substitute 
for Corwin. The weary convict shook hands with Al Moscarella, who 
had been guarding him, and as he started toward the Sing Sing 
bench, his fellow inmates awoke to what was happening: Corwin 
was being taken out for the last time. I had never heard applause 
for a player at Sing Sing, but when someone yelled, "Corwin's com- 
ing out!" spontaneous cheers broke out and spectators began to rise, 
slowly at first, until every convict, official, guard and visiting player 
was on his feet. The place rang with a standing ovation for a stoop- 
shouldered little man who had mastered basketball and fought his 
heart out to bring inspiration to every inmate. 

I knew the rules about not speaking to prisoners, but when the 
final horn sounded, I asked Coach Curtin if I could congratulate 
Corwin personally before he headed back to his cell block. But 
Curtin had anticipated my request "Mr. Barton," he said. "I want 
you to meet one of our players." He pushed Corwin forward. I 
gripped his hand and told him that he had played the greatest game 
I had ever seen, wished him luck and invited him to visit me at any 
time. 

Behind me all ten of our players had lined up to shake Corwin's 



"The Day Sing Sing Licked Us" 193 

hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the sergeant who had 
ordered us not to speak to prisoners. I stared at him and he winked, 
a broad smile on his face. 

On the way to the shower room, I looked at the stands, which last 
year had emptied seconds after the game was over. Hundreds of 
prisoners were still standing fast, a few of them with tears in their 
eyes, watching the Columbia players congratulate Corwin. 

For that one moment, at least, Sing Sing was not a prison but a 
college of triumph and hope which all could attend. 



UNPREDICTABLE ALL-AMERICAN 
By Myron Cope 

From The Saturday Evening Post 
Copyright, , 1960, Myron Cope 



One warm summer evening back in 1955, as Howard and Cecile 
West sat on the front porch of their home in Cabin Creek, West 
Virginia, a tall, stoop-shouldered man came shambling down the 
narrow dirt lane leading to the West home. 

"Ma/' said Howard to his sturdy wife, "who is that big, ugly man 
coming there?" 

The man came up to the porch and introduced himself. He was 
Fred Schaus, basketball coach of West Virginia University. Actually 
there is a boyish charm about Schaus when he is fresh and smiling, 
but as he approached the Wests' home he perhaps had an excuse for 
looking ugly. He had driven four and a half hours from Morgan- 
town, 'way up in the northern end of the state, to Charleston, the 
capital. Then he had turned southeast, driven another fifteen miles, 
pulled his car off Route 61 and driven about fifty yards down a dirt 
road. There he had got out and picked his way down the lane to the 
graying frame house, where he came under the suspicious eye of 
Howard West. 

All Schaus wanted was to meet the Wests' youngest son, Jerry, 
who had just finished his junior year at nearby East Bank High 
School. Jerry was inside the house changing into hunting clothes. 
Schaus shook hands firmly with the gangling, blond boy, noting 
with pleasure that he stood only a few inches shorter than his own 
six feet, five inches. 

From that meeting the career of this bony kid took shape. Under 
Schaus's coaching, Jerry West was to become one of the classiest 
college basketball players ever seen in America and possibly one 
of the strangest too. 

Bucky Bolyard, a teammate of Jerry's last season on a West Vir- 
ginia University team that lost the national-championship game to 
California by only one point, jocularly labeled West "the hick from 
Cabin Crick." Bolyard himself is a hillbilly from Aurora, West 
Virginia population 150, elevation 2650 feet. Many other Moun- 



Unpredictable All-American 195 

taineer players have come from road crossings in the hills they 
probably are the only basketballers booked 'into New York who 
spend their evenings playing pool instead of strutting along Broad- 
way. 

As applied to Jerry West, however, the "hick" has a special mean- 
ing. Jerry himself says he was painfully backward when he first en- 
rolled at West Virginia. Today he remains introverted, although he 
is far from a dullard. He is an intelligent, intense, complicated 
young man of twenty-one. 

Last season West made everybody's All-America team. He was 
named Most valuable player in the Southern Conference. He was an 
overwhelming "most valuable" choice in the National Collegiate 
Athletic Association championship tournament, stealing the show 
from Cincinnati's Oscar Robertson. Yet at season's end he remained 
in many respects a most unhappy fellow. 

At Morgantown, where the university is located, Jerry hides out 
like a recluse in his apartment or in movie theaters. He shuns 
campus hangouts, belongs to no fraternity. "People keep asking 
questions all the time, everywhere I go," he complains. 

He speaks with a twang, but so rapidly that his words tumble one 
upon the other; absorbed in his train of thought, he cracks the 
knuckles of his long, slender fingers one by one. "In Cabin Creek, I 
cain't go into the poolroom without somebody wanting to buy me a 
beer. When I go over to Charleston it's really something people 
stop me with questions everywhere I go. Sometimes I just don't want 
to talk to anybody." 

Jerry is not by nature a grumpy person nor a snobbish one. It 
simply happens that he is the foremost athletic celebrity in a state 
where basketball is almost a holy cause. For instance, Elmer David 
Bruner, a convict awaiting electrocution in the state penitentiary, 
offered one of his eyes last season to first-stringer Bucky Bolyard, 
who is almost totally blind in one eye. The offer was declined 
Bucky was, after all, shooting at better than 50 per cent accuracy 
and could afford to leave well enough alone. 

Such examples of West Virginia basketball fanaticism are as pro- 
fuse as the timber in the hills above Morgantown. In this atmosphere 
it is little wonder that a young man like Jerry West should suffer 
inner turmoil. "It's no good, thinking basketball all the time," says 
Jerry. "That's why I go to see the same movies twice. They cain't get 
at you in the movies." 



196 Myron Cope 

Unlike most campus athletes, who are social lions with the coed 
population, Jerry seldom dated until his junior year. It was then 
that an attractive brownette named Janey Kane unsettled him when 
they met in a class. Her secret was simple. "She didn't even know I 
was a basketball player," Jerry explains. They began to date, and 
Jerry got Janey to go to the games; but regardless of how magnifi- 
cently Jerry played Janey remained outwardly unimpressed. Jerry 
continued to hide out in movies, but not alone. 

On the basketball court Jerry West presents a different sort of 
enigma. He seems unable to play anywhere near his best unless faced 
with a challenge. If he is being guarded by an All- American, or West 
Virginia is playing a highly-ranked team, or the Mountaineers are 
trailing by fifteen points, then Jerry will explode. But if the opposi- 
tion is mediocre he cannot find his touch. 

Fourteen of the Mountaineers* twenty-nine victories last season 
were come-from-behind rumpuses. Jerry averaged only 2% points in 
the easy games, but 30.2 in the close ones. He also averaged more 
points on the road than at home, although home is where the help 
is going into the current season, West Virginia had won thirty- 
three consecutive games at Mountaineer Field House, a cramped, 
vertical shell in which 6800 screaming fans bear down on the visiting 
team, creating a bedlam that is frightening. 

Perhaps the most significant dividend from West's clutch play is 
the over-all effect it has had on West Virginia University basketball. 
Until he carried the Mountaineers all the way to the finals of the 
national championships last March, they had a reputation for being 
a choke-up outfit. Year in and year out West Virginia had rolled 
through the so-so Southern Conference as casually as a team of draft 
horses mows a field. Having won the conference championship, the 
Mountaineers would then be shipped to Madison Square Garden, 
New York, to compete in the first round of the N. G. A. A. eastern 
regionals. And here their season promptly would end. 

In 1955 LaSalle eliminated them in the first round. In 1956 it was 
Dartmouth Ivy Leaguers, of all people. In 1957 Canisius applied a 
swift kick to the West Virginia posterior, and in 1958 Manhattan 
did likewise. Each year West Virginia had excuses, but its reputation 
for failure in the N. C. A. A. tournament became deeply galling to 
coach Fred Schaus. Last March, as his team prepared to open against 
Dartmouth in its annual pilgrimmage to Madison Square Garden, 
conservative Schaus said, "We've run out of excuses. I think this is 
our year." 



Unpredictable All-American 197 

Schaus, of course, had Jerry West going for him. Even though 
West injured a leg early in the Dartmouth game and limped there- 
after, he scored twenty-five points in an 8s-to-68 victory. West and 
West Virginia had killed the jinx and were on their way. The 
Mountaineers fire-engined their way through the playoffs as follows: 

WEST VIRGINIA 95, ST. JOSEPH'S 92 Jerry whipped in four- 
teen points in less than four minutes to help wipe out an eighteen- 
point lead held by the Hawks with only thirteen minutes remaining. 

WEST VIRGINIA 86, BOSTON UNIVERSITY 82 Jerry de- 
molished a Boston lead by scoring eight-straight points in one 
minute and fifty-nine seconds and had a twenty-point second half. 

WEST VIRGINIA 94, LOUISVILLE 79 Jerry registered twenty- 
seven points in the first half and then, lacking the challenge of stern 
opposition, took only six shots in the second half. 

In the championship game against California he came off the 
bench under the inhibition of four personal fouls and led a zone 
press that cut the Bears' thirteen-point margin to a single point. He 
scored twenty-eight points playing part time. 

Although California won out, 71-70, Jerry had erased the choke-up 
stigma and restored the Mountaineers' dignity as a basketball team. 
Previously many had looked upon West Virginia as a vaudeville 
troupe featuring Hot Rod Hundley and four straight men. Dribbling 
the ball between his legs, spinning it on his index finger and grin- 
ning impishly at the opposition, Hot Rod packed in crowds wher- 
ever the Mountaineers traveled from 1954 to 1957. He was the box- 
office champ, and, as Coach Schaus will tell you, he was one heck of 
a basketball player too. But what Coach Schaus won't tell you is 
that it almost made him sick to coach a team known more for its 
shenanigans than its technical excellence. In the Jerry West era all 
this has changed. 

West stands just six feet, two-and-a-half inches and weighs a 
skimpy 174 pounds. Only his wide, athletic shoulders dispel the sus- 
picion of malnutrition. However, his jump shot is deadly, his reac- 
tions panther-quick. Most extraordinary of all is his ability to jump 
high into the air. By actual measurement and this is amazing for 
a relatively short player Jerry can touch the backboard sixteen 
inches higher than the rim of the basket. 

His jumping accounts for many rebounds and also enables him to 
repulse on defense assaults with a finality that often takes the fight 
out of the opposition. His defensive trade-mark is the same as that 
of the giants of the professional basketball, seven-foot-one-inch Wilt 



198 Myron Cope 

Chamberlain of the Philadelphia Warriors and six-foot-ten Bill 
Russell of the Boston Celtics. As the enemy shooter goes up for a 
shot, West goes up with him and blocks the ball as easily as picking 
an apple off a low-hanging bough. Moreover, he is apt to come down 
with the ball and start a fast break to the opposing basket, leaving a 
frustrated shooter behind. 

"We were playing The Citadel last season/' Coach Schaus recalls. 
"One of their guys had had shots blocked by Jerry several times dur- 
ing the game. Finally they had three men coming down the floor 
and only Jerry to stop them a three-on-one situation. No, I think 
it was four-on-one. 

"Anyhow," Schaus goes on, "Jerry took the middle man, who had 
the ball. The middle man passed off to the guy on his left and, as he 
started to shoot, Jerry switched to him. This was the guy whose 
shots Jerry had been blocking all night. Do you know what the guy 
did? He got gun-shy. He backed off and did nothing. Jerry had 
stopped the play cold." 

Last season Jerry hit a four-game slump, and as even the best 
athletes will do, he tightened up. He missed ten lay-ups, he passed 
badly, he got cranky. Schaus gave him a talking to, but got no re- 
sults. Finally assistant coach George King took Jerry to lunch one 
day and said, "Look, you're supposed to be an Ail-American. Act 
like one/' 

In the next game, against Holy Cross, the opening tap went to 
Jerry. He dribbled down the floor for an easy lay-up and missed. 
"Oh, no!" moaned Schaus on the bench, burying his head in his 
hands* "Here we go again/' 

Then all at once Jerry's doldrums ended in the inexplicable 
manner of most slumps. Once more he was as loose as a marionette. 
He poured in thirty-six points. Meanwhile, the slump had served, 
among other things, to show how talented Jerry is at his worst. On 
three of those four successive off nights he had been high scorer, 
getting thirty points twice and twenty-three another time. 

"That's a lot of points for a slump," it was pointed out to Jerry. 

"Yes," he replied, "but 1 was stealing those baskets. I made only 
forty-four per cent of my fouls and thirty-five per cent of my field- 
goal shots." 

"That field-goal percentage isn't bad," he was told. 

"Well," he said, "I'd been shooting fifty-four per cent from the 
field/' 



Unpredictable All-American 199 

O.K., O.K. And Babe Ruth had a lousy year when he dropped off 
to fifty-four homers in 1928. 

Literally there has been something special about Jerry West from 
the moment he arrived on earth. Due to the insistence of a young 
doctor with high-flown ideas, Jerry was born in Doctor Gray's Clinic 
in Cabin Creek. He was the fifth of six West children, but the only 
one to be delivered in medical surroundings. 

Doctor Gray's Clinic sat next door to the poolroom on Route 61, 
the main street of both Cabin Creek and Chelyan pronounced 
"Shill-yun." These two unincorporated villages adjoin each other, 
but for all practical purposes they are one and the same town. Tech- 
nically the Wests for the past nine years have lived on the Chelyan 
end of the community. However, Howard West has never formally 
recognized Chelyan; he still receives the family mail at the Cabin 
Creek post office and insists that Cabin Creek is his son Jerry's home 
as well as his birthplace. Nobody cares to disagree. 

Jerry West, the complex All-American, is essentially the product 
of three family influences. From an older brother, David, who later 
was mortally wounded in Korea, he got his love of basketball. From 
his robust, handsome mother, Cecile, he got his high-strung per- 
sonality as well as his height. And from his rather short and compact 
father, Howard, he got the discipline that has enabled him to main- 
tain his perspective and his six-and-seven-eighths hat size. 

Jerry was introduced to basketball at the age of six by his brother 
David, who was then fifteen. For years the older boy coached him 
with the dedication of one who senses a prodigy. When David, who 
had intended to study for the ministry, died as an infantry sergeant, 
Jerry felt the loss profoundly. Although he does not make a big 
thing of it today, his achievements on the court are in part due to 
his determination to justify David's efforts. 

Howard West, sitting in his parlor easy chair in T shirt and 
trousers, felt disposed recently to paint a word sketch of the two 
other influences in Jerry's life himself and his wife. Howard at 
fifty-nine is a salty man of strong convictions. Reared on a farm, he 
moved to Cabin Creek and worked for a nearby oil company for 
twenty-six years. There he served four terms as president of a union 
local and once helped lead a ny-day strike. Since 1947 Howard has 
worked in the electrical shop of a coal mine. Here employment is so 
scarce in winter that he cannot go to Morgantown to see Jerry play, 
lest he lose an opportunity for a day's pay. 



2oo Myron Cope 

But Howard West always has managed to provide for his family 
and Is a man of some standing in the community. "I'm usually 
emcee of all the gatherings," he was saying, "and I'm. supposed to be 
a pretty good one. But now I've lost my name. I'm introduced as 
Jerry West's father. I pay it no mind. 

"I have seen too many boys who have made a little bit of a name 
for themselves," Howard went on, speaking without elegance but 
with clarity, "and got far bigger an ego than their capabilities justi- 
fied. It won't happen to Jerry. I tell him, 'You may be something up 
at Morgantown, but you're gonna have to come back to realistic 
living.' I have never had an hour of trouble from him." 

Howard is inclined to brag more about his front porch "biggest 
front porch in town, wouldn't trade it for a pair o' Missouri mules" 
than about his Ail-American son. "I've been accused by people of 
not being enthusiastic about Jerry," said Howard. "Well, I take the 
position that I shouldn't run my mouth and be obnoxious. 

"Anyways, I leave the gettin' excited to ma. She plays the hardest 
game of anybody you ever saw. We've seen her listening to Jerry's 
games on the radio with tears in her eyes. If West Virginia is behind, 
she goes to the kitchen and pretends she's doin' woman's work." 

Up the road a piece beyond Cabin Creek is a town named East 
Bank, where Jerry attended high school. When the East Bank High 
School basketball team returned from Morgantown with the 1956 
state-championship trophy, the town was renamed West Bank for 
the day in honor of the hero of the occasion, Jerry West. 

His high-school coach was Roy Williams, a balding man whose 
face takes on the happy complexion of a ripe tomato when he talks 
of Jerry. Williams assigned Jerry to the "B" squad when he origi- 
nally came out for basketball, but the coach soon saw the boy's po- 
tential and notified him of his promotion to the varsity. Jerry 
begged Williams not to promote him. 

Williams explains, "The B squad was scheduled to play Charles- 
ton High's B squad. Jerry was a great competitor, and he wanted to 
beat those city slickers." 

Williams reluctantly consented to Jerry's plea, so Jerry played 
against Charleston High and broke his foot. "He was through for 
the season," says Williams, "but he came hobbling to practice every 
day and kept practicing his shots. You couldn't keep him off the 
court." 

Ever since Jerry led East Bank to the state championship in 1956, 



Unpredictable All-American 201 

setting a state record of 926 points in twenty-seven games, a huge 
picture of him in his uniform has hung over the entrance to the 
small gymnasium. Beside it hangs his jersey No. 12 framed. 

Although the reputation Jerry built in high school brought him 
many scholarship offers, West Virginia University had only one 
serious rival for his services. Jerry was taken with the University of 
Maryland campus. But Howard and Cecile West bore down on him 
with the admonition that he ought not to forget his home state. "I 
told him he belonged at home," says Howard. "Home means more 
to a body than anything else." 

So in the summer of 1956 Jerry went up to Morgan town to 
acclimate himself for the September semester. There he immediately 
became a homesick hick from Cabin Creek. Willie Akers, a blond, 
rosy-cheeked basketball player from back in the hills at Mullens, 
vividly recalls Jerry's unhappiness. Willie and a New Jersey basket- 
ball player named Joe Posch have since shared an apartment with 
Jerry, but as Willie tells it, Jerry stayed that summer in one of the 
rented rooms owned by Ann DiNardi, a Morgantown pharmacist 
who often has put up athletes. 

"Jerry had a job as a water boy with a construction crew," says 
Willie. "He was to get paid by the hour, but he didn't make much 
money. Every morning Ann DiNardi would pack him a lunch and 
wake him up for work. He'd say 'O.K/ Then he'd go back to bed. 
He'd wake up at noon, eat his lunch and then go back to bed again. 
He wasn't lazy. He was just real unhappy." 

Throughout his freshman year Jerry remained miserable. The 
students at the university seemed to him too sophisticated, too fast. 
The faculty seemed cold and unwilling to show him the classroom 
consideration he had received as a high-school hero in East Bank. In 
his first semester he drew three D's, a development which no doubt 
shook up Coach Schaus, for Jerry was leading the freshman team to 
an undefeated season, and the freshmen also were beating the varsity 
regularly in practice. 

Off the court Jerry kept to himself, moped and considered going 
home. It was fortunate for the West Virginia box office that he did 
not. Hot Rod Hundley was playing his last season, and Jerry would 
be needed to replace him as a gate attraction. Nobody knew this 
better than C. S. (Wink) Simmons, the business manager of the 
athletic department. However, when Jerry moved up to the varsity 
as a sophomore for the 1957-58 season, Simmons found himself in 



2O2 Myron Cope 

the position of a salesman who has a sure-fire line, but is not allowed 
to talk about it. Coach Schaus, aware of Jerry's retiring nature, did 
not want him subjected to a publicity build-up. 

Less than three weeks after the season got under way, the Moun- 
taineers upset both Kentucky and defending national-champion 
North Carolina to win the Kentucky Invitational tournament at 
Lexington. West had not scored in sensational figures, but he had 
given off enough sparks to establish himself as the new key man. 
Wink Simmons relaxed. 

"When we had Hundley/' Simmons later recalled, "people who 
didn't know a basketball from a pumpkin came to the games. Jerry, 
on the other hand, appeals most to the aficionado. What does he 
have? Ability, that's all. Yet he rates with Hundley as a crowd- 
puller/' 

Jerry's teammates took to him with genuine affection. However, 
not even this drew West out of his shell. On road trips the players 
took turns saying grace at mealtime, but when it came Jerry's turn 
he could not bring himself to do it he was that self-conscious. Even 
in his junior year he remained acutely shy. Last semester he got four 
C's and a B, but received a D in his easiest physical-education course 
folk dancing because he absolutely could not be persuaded to 
call a square dance. 

Driven by the vision of wealth in pro basketball, Jerry all but 
knocks himself out on the court. In class he finds no motivation and 
consequently comes up with grades that are no better than average. 
Some of his teachers say they know he is capable of better work. "He 
is emotionally used up," declares Dr. Walter H. Jarecke, an educa- 
tional psychologist who heads the university's guidance center. "He 
spends himself in basketball." 

When Jerry has played below par, he sinks into a state of mental 
depression that tears at him until he has acquitted himself. In De- 
cember, 1958, when the Mountaineers met Northwestern in Chicago 
Stadium before a crowd of 12,775, J err y had a poor second half. He 
fouled out, thanks to Northwestern's Willie (The Bird) Jones, a 
high-jumping soda straw who discovered how to draw fouls from 
West. Jones would go up with the ball and seem to hang momen- 
tarily in the air, as though on a streetcar strap, until Jerry would 
slap him. Banished to the bench, Jerry watched his team lose in two 
overtimes, 118 to 109. 

"Jerry couldn't sleep after that Northwestern game," says team- 



Unpredictable All-American 203 

mate Willie Akers. "All he thought about was making up for it." 
Two nights later it was the University of Tennessee that paid. 

Tennessee gave the Mountaineers a Hatfield-McCoy reception. 
Bob Clousson had his head cut, Bob Smith got his mouth lacerated 
and Jerry himself got a clout on the neck and later required X rays. 
But he scored forty-four points in a 76^0-72 victory, and Emmett 
Lowery, then the Tennessee coach, declared, "West is the greatest 
basketball player I've ever seen.'* 

While Jerry shrinks from the demonstrative adulation that has 
come his way, he is intensely proud of his All- American status. This 
becomes obvious when he is pitted against another player of emi- 
nence. For example, in a man-to-man duel last year with All- Ameri- 
can Johnny Cox of Kentucky, Jerry scored thirty-six points and held 
Cox to sixteen. He played as though he hated Cox. 

The inevitable argument over who is the top college player 
Jerry West or Cincinnati's Oscar Robertson is one Jerry tries to 
stay out of. Both got off to tremendous starts again last month as 
their teams ran up early winning streaks before heading into holi- 
day-tournament competition. 

When you prod West on the subject, he implies in a hemming- 
and-hawing fashion that he is unwilling to take second place to 
Oscar. West has never played against Robertson, but he watched 
him in the N.C.A.A. tournament, where Cincinnati bowed out in 
the semifinals, and was his teammate in the Pan-American trials 
and Pan-American games last summer. 

"Oscar is great, says Jerry. "He's got all kinds of moves. He's a 
good ball handler." 

Yes, but what about insinuations that Oscar does not always give 
100 per cent? 

"Well, in his thinking he's not lazy," Jerry replies, "and maybe 
he's not lazy. If he wants to play that way, that's up to him. I don't 
know whether he's loafing. Maybe we both loaf. Maybe we loaf in 
different ways. I don't think anybody can go all out for forty 
minutes." 

Understandably he is reluctant to offend Robertson, for Oscar 
once gave Jerry a praise-from-Caesar tribute. "Bo you think West is 
the second-best player in the country?" Oscar was asked. Magnani- 
mously he replied, "He might be the first." 

In West Virginia, of course, most folks are satisfied that Jerry 
West is the very best. When he returned home last June for summer 



204 Myron Cope 

vacation his renown was such that he immediately was offered three 
jobs in nearby Charleston. Simultaneously he became an automobile 
salesman, a good-will man for a dairy company and a radio sports- 
caster. All three jobs required him to emerge from hiding; but, of 
course, they offered motivation economic motivation. 

The radio show, an eight-minute stint in which he read the sports 
news of the day, rattled him at first. However, he settled down to a 
workmanlike performance, even though his native twang, to the 
alien ear, made the sports news sound as though it were emanating 
from Grand OT Opry. 

One afternoon last June, Jerry and this writer dropped in at 
Wade's Poolroom in Cabin Creek, Jerry had time to kill before driv- 
ing to the radio station, and so we shot three games of rotation. In 
the first game he racked me up, running the last six balls. In the 
second game he missed a couple of setups, but again beat me. 

In the third game, though, he couldn't put two good shots to- 
gether. I whipped him and I know why. I was bum opposition, no 
challenge to him. This was no different from basketball. 

As we replaced our cues on the rack, a stocky young man called 
out, "Hey, Jerry. Lemme buy you and your friend a beer." 

Jerry declined and, as we left, he said to me, "See. I cain't even go 
into the poolroom without somebody wanting to buy me a beer." 
He seemed terribly distressed. 



GOLF 



LIGHTNING STRIKES TWICE 
By Maxwell Stiles 

From The Los Angeles Mirror-News 
Copyright, , 1960, The Los Angeles Mirror-News 



When I called at the Eric Monti home in Palms last night, the 
man who had blown himself out of $4,100 and the Los Angeles Open 
golf championship was not cutting himself a slice of throat. 

I didn't smell any leaking gas and I saw no signs of an overdose of 
sleeping pills. Nobody had called the coroner. 

Eric's wife, Evelyn, came to the door and said her husband didn't 
feel like talking to anybody. He was eating his dinner, and couldn't 
I do it by making a telephone call? No, that wasn't possible because 
the phone was out of order. That's why I had driven all the way out 
there. 

"We took the receiver off the hook," admitted Mrs. Monti. 

"Come on in, Max/' the dejected Hillcrest Country Club pro 
called out. "I've had all the dinner I want." 

The man seemed to appreciate the visit. He was not completely 
forgotten, after all, not even after that disastrous 80 for a 285 when a 
74 would have won $5,500 and a 75 would have tied. All he got was 
$1,400 plus two checks for $500 as leader in two rounds of the Open. 

"I had no idea it could ever happen again, that lightning could 
strike twice," Monti began as we sat down in his living room. Eric 
had reference to the 1955 tournament at Inglewood when he went 
into the final round with a one-stroke lead, blew to a 77 and wound 
up tied for eighth and with $787.50 instead of first prize of $5,000. 
Yesterday he started out four shots ahead of his nearest foe, Dow 
Finsterwald, soared nine over par and tied for seventh, five strokes 
behind Finsterwald's winning 280. 

"I guarantee I had as much confidence yesterday as I've ever had 
in my life," Monti continued. "I slept well and felt the best I've felt 
in a long time. 

205 



2o6 Maxwell Stiles 

"I practiced about an hour at Hillcrest, leaving there about 
1 1 a.m. I hit all my shots great. I putted well on our practice green. 
I couldn't wait to get on that first tee at Rancho! 

"And then, when I did, I popped my first two drives up in the air 
and got a bogey and double-bogey on the first two holes. My first 
drive was about 190 yards, the second, 150. I hit underneath the 
ball both times. 

"After those two drives I started flinching at them. I lost confi- 
dence in my wood game, but 1 did not lose confidence in my irons 
or on the greens. 

"I just had a miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable day. It 
was the worst day I've ever gone through. 

"It's a mystery to me what happened. I'll be baffled the rest of my 
life. I'm telling you, it's like a shock. It's like a bomb fell on me. 

"I cannot understand why. I have a good, sound swing. My game 
is as sound and orthodox as any man's. That's why I am so puzzled. 

"I tried to concentrate but couldn't do it. After I was four over 
par on the first three holes, I was probably thinking of 1955 and 
wondering if I was going to do that all over again. And I was doing 
a lot worse! 

"I cured the popping-up after those first two drives, but I was 
three over par for the two holes. I had another bogey at the third. I 
settled dawn for two holes, then had a bogey on the sixth when I 
pulled an iron off to the edge of the fairway and chipped too far. 

"At the par 3 seventh I pulled a 4-iron off the right edge of the 
green and chipped eight feet too far. I missed the putt and had an- 
other bogey. 

"At the loth I was on in two but took three putts for a bogey five. 
I was now seven over par and three shots behind Finsterwald. Jay 
Hebert was up even with me. I felt miserable about it all. 

"At the par three igth, 234 yards, I came up with another bogey. 
I hit a wood in the neck of the club. The ball was in line with the 
flag but short of the green. I chipped too far and missed my par 
when a six-foot putt hung on the lip of the cup. I had another bogey 
on 16 when a good drive was followed by a 4-wood into a trap to 
the left of the green. I blasted out and took two putts from 10 feet/' 

Eric said he saw 40 or 50 club members in his gallery. He did not 
return to the club or go to the pressroom after he had finished the 
worst round of his career. He went straight home, had a belt and 
then sat down to dinner. 



Lightning Strikes Twice 207 

His wife had followed him around the course and had given him 
what encouragement she could. But he didn't have a birdie all day, 
and a birdieless round in the face of nine bogeys is pretty discour- 
aging. 

"Evelyn told me it was not the end of the world, just do the best 
I could it wasn't that important/' Eric recalled. "Ill be glad to 
forget about it. If I can. I can't let it go on and on and bother me. 
I've got a job and a little security. It's not the only thing in my life. 

"And yet ... I did want to win that championship. It was the 
honor, mostly, that and the pride I could have felt if all this had 
not happened to me again. I didn't lose any fringe benefits, as I 
have already qualified for Las Vegas. I am happy for the lap money, 
$1,000." 

Eric Monti was still shaking his head in disbelief, and his wife 
was managing a brave smile, as the door closed behind me and I 
left the little home upon which a bomb had fallen. 



FOR LOVE 8c MONEY 
By Jim Atwater 

From Time 
Copyright, , 1960, Time, Inc. 



There, on the sixth tee, he waited: a towheaded, barefoot boy 
with a cowboy pistol dangling at his hip and a sawed-off ladies* 
driver in his hands. Everyone around the Latrobe, Pa. Country Club 
knew Arnie Palmer, the club pro's five-year-old son. Coming up to 
drive, the women players would chuckle at the kid, then look with 
dismay toward the drainage ditch that lay 120 yards down the fair- 
way. At that point, Arnie would make a sound business offer: "I'll 
knock your ball over the ditch for a nickel." 

When he got takers and he generally did Arnie would care- 
fully apply the overlapping grip that his father had been teaching 
him for two years, dig in his toes, draw back his undersized driver, 
and cut loose with a swing of such violence that the momentum 
often sent him sprawling on the ground even as the ball headed 
out over the ditch. Pocketing his nickels, Arnie would confide to 
steady customers: "Some day I'm going to be a big golfer, like Bobby 
Jones/' 

In 1960, Arnold Palmer, now 30, has fulfilled his childhood 
promise: he is widely recognized as golf's top player. And he got that 
way by developing to a rare degree the same qualities he showed as 
a cocky kid on Latrobe's sixth tee. He still swings all out, still is 
confident he can make any shot, still is frankly ambitious, still loves 
to play for money. 

But he no longer plays for nickels. His 117,500 purse for his eye- 
lash victory at the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Ga. this month 
boosted his 1960 tournament earnings to $44,256, a record for so 
-early in the season. With six victories already this year, Palmer 
towers above the pack as the strong favorite for this summer's major 
pro tests: the U. S. Open at Englewood, Colo, in June, the British 
Open at St. Andrews and the Professional Golfers' Association tour- 
nament at Akron. 

As golf's new leader, Palmer is also the brightest star of a new 

208 



For Love & Money 209 

generation of professionals a generation that seems likely to domi- 
nate the game for the next decade or more. By nature, professional 
golf has always been a nerve-shaking test of the individual, who 
must face and face alone the task of knocking a stationary little 
white ball into a stationary little round hole, with his livelihood 
depending on a true stroke. 

Since World War II the biggest names in golf have belonged to a 
pair of truly rugged individuals: hard-bitten little Ben Hogan, a 
Texan who laboriously constructed his game to a point of mechani- 
cal perfection, and Sam Snead, a shrewd hillbilly playing out of 
West Virginia, with a natural swing that was the sweetest anywhere. 
Both 47, Hogan and Snead still play the big tournaments, but their 
reigning days have clearly ended. 

So have the days of their golfing generation, an era characterized 
by a crew of salty-talking, hard-driving pros who got their formal 
education in caddy shacks and found their relaxation at the bar- 
bunkered igth hole. The Palmer breed, now taking over, is that of 
the college-trained family man with an agent to line up fat endorse- 
ments and a cooler in the auto trunk for baby's bottle. Less flam- 
boyant than their predecessors, the new pro stars are nonetheless 
developing into distinct, colorful personalities who< are drawing 
the galleries as well as the pay-checks. And the gallery favorite by 
far is Arnold Palmer. 

Win or lose, Palmer, with his daring, slashing attack, is fun to 
watch. He is a splendidly built athlete (5 ft. 11 in., 177 Ibs.) with 
strength in all the right places: massive shoulders and arms, a waist 
hardly big enough to hold his trousers up, thick wrists, and leather- 
hard, outsized hands that can crumple a beer can as though it were 
tissue paper. Like baseball buffs, golf fans dote on the long-ball 
hitter; they pack six deep behind the tee to gasp in admiration as 
Powerman Palmer unwinds to send a s8o-yd. drive down the fair- 
way. Coldly precise in his study of the game, Palmer is anything but 
stolid during a round: he mutters imprecations to himself, contorts 
his face, sometimes drops his club and wanders away in disgust at a 
botched shot. On the greens, bent into his knock-kneed stance, he 
tries to sink long putts when many pros would prudently try to lag 
up to the cup. Says Palmer: "I guess I putt past the pin more than 
most anybody. I always like to give it a chance. Never up, never in, 
you know." Says P.G.A. President Harold Sargent: "Palmer is about 
the boldest player on the circuit." 



210 Jim Atwater 

In this year's prestigious Masters, a nationwide television audience 
got a close look at Palmer in his career's finest moment. With three 
holes to go, Palmer needed one birdie to tie and two to beat another 
young star, California's Ken Venturi, 28. Recalls Palmer: "When I 
came off the i5th green, everybody was cheering. I could hear them, 
but they weren't getting to me if I didn't get the bird it was all 
meaningless to me. On 16, 1 hit a three-iron to get the ball up to the 
hole, but I eased off. I didn't want to go over, and I left myself short 
about 30 ft. I couldn't see the cup because of a roll in the green, so 
I had the pin left in. I bounced it off the pin and dropped the sec- 
ond putt for a par. 

"I had checked the pin position on the i7th green when I was 
playing 15. I hit my tee shot as long as possible. I hit my second so 
it would carry over the trap but hold up before it skidded past the 
hole. I left myself a 25-ft. putt, uphill. I had to hit it hard to go in 
for a birdie. It did. 

"On 18, there was one thing I wanted to be sure of: no bogie. I 
had a six-iron shot to the green at about 150 yards. As I got ready 
to hit it, I thought of my father. It happens millions of times when 
I have a tough shot. He kept saying to me: 'Just take it back slow 
and it will come off. Slow and deliberate.' The six-iron hit to the 
right of the pin, spun around and almost hit the cup. It was six feet 
from the hole. I was lining up the putt, trying to get a few breaths 
of fresh air like I was spending a nice day in the country. The putt 
dropped for my winning birdie." 

But the Masters did more than provide the occasion for an indi- 
vidual Palmer triumph: it showed how Palmer's contemporaries 
have come to dominate professional golf. Of the top four finishers, 
none was over 30 years old, while the graying Hogan faded badly 
on the fourth day, wound up tied for sixth place, and the balding 
Snead tied for eleventh, Among the golfers from whom Palmer will 
get the toughest competition in the years ahead: 

KEN VENTURI, 28 (6 ft., 170 Ibs.), has the smoothest swing of 
the younger players, is a wonderfully talented shotmaker whose 
game is still marred by inexplicable runs of bad play (he lost the 
Masters mostly because of a dismal six-over-par 42 on the back nine 
of the opening round). Son of a ship chandlery salesman in San 
Francisco, Venturi began playing golf at the age of nine, was a senior 
at San Jose State College when he came under the benevolent care 
of Millionaire Lincoln-Mercury Dealer Ed Lowery. A golf nut, 



For Love 6* Money 211 

Lowery not only bankrolled Venturi by making him vice president 
of one of his dealerships, but introduced him to Byron Nelson, the 
Texas pro with the great iron game who flourished at the end of 
World War II. After Nelson had tightened his swing, Venturi sur- 
prised the golfing world as an amateur of 24 by nearly winning the 
1956 Masters (he blew up on the last day with an eight-over-par 80). 
Many pros think that Venturi's rigid, blueprint approach to golf is 
the main reason he has never won a major tournament. Admits Nel- 
son: "Ken accepted what I told him as law, maybe to the point of 
overdoing it." But Venturi has begun to steady an erratic putter, is 
the chief threat to Palmer's domination of the game. Says Venturi 
calmly: "I fear no player. I say that without modesty, because 
modesty has nothing to do with it." 

DOW FINSTERWALD, 30, needs only a hairline mustache to 
look like a riverboat gambler, but he too often plays golf like an old 
maid: a top hole-by-hole tactician, his cautious strategy is simply to 
finish well up in the money (since 1958 Finsterwald has won only 10 
of his 105 tournaments, but finished fifth or better 48 times, includ- 
ing 16 seconds). Son of a lawyer in Athens, Ohio, Finsterwald went 
to Ohio University, developed an all-round game to compensate for 
his slight, hollow-chested build (5 ft. 10 in., 160 Ibs.). Finsterwald's 
steady brand of play avoids the single bad round that can ruin 
aggressive players like Venturi and Palmer (who is Finsterwald's best 
friend on the circuit). "If Finsterwald ever gets that little extra spark 
needed to win," says Byron Nelson, "it will be difficult for anyone 
ever to beat him." 

BILLY CASPER, 28, the son of a San Diego plasterer, has de- 
veloped the sharpest short game of the circuit, but is less than 
zealous about practicing with woods and long irons: "putting and 
chipping are more fun." Casper has weight problems (5 ft. 11 in., 
205 Ibs.), stays relaxed on the course by playing swiftly while rivals 
grow tense as they brood over shots. Casper's accurate, conservative 
brand of golf last year won him the U. S. Open. 

BOB ROSBURG, 33, is one of the most improbable of the 
younger stars. With small, weak hands, he has to pass up the pro's 
usual finger-entwined grip and just grab the club as though it were 
a baseball bat. Sweat fogs his glasses until he looks like a myopic in- 
surance adjuster out for a Sunday round. He has muscle spasms in 
his back, an uncertain stomach. He once developed a skin allergy to 
leather: his hands broke out when he grasped the leather grips of 



212 Jim Atwater 

his clubs. But Rosburg (5 ft. 11 in., 185 Ibs,), a second baseman at 
Stanford in his college days, nonetheless has power off the tee and 
a pool shark's touch on the green. Last year he won the P.G.A., 
finished a stroke behind Winner Casper in the Open. Rosburg is 
now grimly trying to conquer a problem even more serious than his 
physical ailments: an explosive temper that usually drives him into 
one miserable round per tournament. 

MIKE SOUGHAK, 32, has sweated down to his rock-hard playing 
weight (5 ft. 11 in., 198 Ibs.) as a crack end at Duke University, is 
one of golf's longest hitters. But "Souch" seems too nonchalant for 
the pro wars, wields a cold putter, and blunts the edge of his game 
by frequently packing up, leaving the circuit and going home to see 
his family. 

With such opposition Arnold Palmer has need for every skill 
picked up in a lifetime of golf. He was raised, quite literally, on a 
golf course. His father, Milfred Jerome ("Deacon") Palmer, was 
greenskeeper and teaching pro at the club in Latrobe, 30 miles east 
of Pittsburgh. As a toddler, Arnie rode between his father's legs on 
the tractor-mower, romped in the rough, built castles in the sand 
traps. He was just seven when he talked his six-year-old sister Lois 
Jean into lugging around his heavy golf bag, went out one morning 
and broke 100 for the first time. "They wouldn't believe us," he re- 
calls, adding with a slightly acid touch: "And I was putting them all 
out that day, too." Palmer also fell into the habit of acting out a 
dream of the future by describing his play aloud to an empty green: 
"Arnold Palmer now lines up a putt on the 36th hole. He pauses. 
The gallery is quiet. He hits it and it's in. Arnold Palmer of Latrobe, 
Pennsylvania, is the new U. S. Amateur champion!" 

Many another kid has had such a dream but to Palmer it was no 
fancy. "Except for Bobby Jones," says a friend, "Arnie never idolized 
any golfer. I think he figured he'd beat them all some day." Step by 
step, his father carefully laid the foundations for Arnold's game. 
The Deacon drilled his son endlessly on his stroke ("Left arm 
straight, right arm close, hands tight on the club"), brushed off criti- 
cism that the boy's swing was too violent ("When he gets older, he'll 
balance himself better"). In the process, Palmer absorbed from his 
father another mainstay of his game: stubborn determination. "Pap 
doesn't quit something until it's completely impossible," says 
Palmer. "He taught me that." 

In the summer, Palmer built up his arms by wrestling tractors and 
mowers over the course (he had to stand up to handle the wheel); 



For Love if Money 

in the winter he drove balls painted bright red into the snow. At 
eleven he was coolly offering advice to the club champion and hav- 
ing it gratefully accepted. Palmer never tired of practicing. "He'd be 
yelling, 'Watch me! Watch me! Watch me, Pap!' " recalls Deacon 
Palmer. "You'd get so sick of him you'd feel like hitting him a lick/' 

In high school, Palmer got a stern lesson in controlling his temper 
on the course. Infuriated by flubbing a shot in a junior match, he 
sent his club sailing over a poplar grove. Going home, he found him- 
self in a car with a grim father. "Pap told me that this was a gentle- 
man's game, and he was ashamed of me," said Palmer. "If he saw 
or heard of me throwing a club again, he was through with me as a 
golfer. That did it." Settled down, Arnie Palmer twice won the state 
high school championship, then headed south with Friend Buddy 
Worsham, younger brother of Pro Golfer Lew Worsham, with a golf 
scholarship at North Carolina's Wake Forest. The first day on cam- 
pus Worsham shot a 68, Palmer a 67. 

At Wake Forest, Palmer put a polish on his game, won a flock of 
tournaments, amused himself by shooting par while playing all his 
shots standing on his left foot alone. Then, in their senior year, 
Worsham was killed in an automobile accident. Completely shaken, 
Palmer quit school: "I thought I'd go crazy. I was always looking 
around for Buddy." Palmer spent three Stateside years as an enlisted 
man in the Coast Guard, won the Ohio State Amateur while on 
leave. 

When he was discharged in 1954, Palmer went for the big time in 
the U. S. Amateur. Playing in the finals against onetime British 
Amateur Champion Bob Sweeny, Palmer rolled a 5o-ft. putt dead 
just three inches from the pin on the g6th green for the shot that 
won the match. At long last, the childhood fancy was fact: the an- 
nouncers were saying that Arnold Palmer of Latrobe, Pa. was the 
new U. S. Amateur champion. 

Ten days later, playing at Shawnee on Delaware, Palmer met a 
freckle-faced brunette named Winnie Walzer, daughter of the presi- 
dent of a small canned-goods company in Bethlehem. In three days 
he proposed. They were married that winter when Palmer turned 
p ro an d discovered he was just a boy among the men who played 
the finest golf in the world. At times, the frustrated Palmer would 
even violate the mores of the pros by quitting in mid-tournament. 
"God, I wanted to win," he says. "My thought was to pick up if I 
wasn't winning and get the hell out of there." 

His record for 1955 was speckled with failure ("tied for 22nd in 



214 

Houston Open"), but Palmer kept improving his short game, learned 
not to gamble on every long iron shot, and by 1957 was the fifth 
leading money winner, with $27,802.80. In 1958, he went all the way, 
winning the Masters and the most money: $42,607.50. Last year, 
having trouble with his short and middle irons, Palmer won no 
major tournaments, but still was a respectable fifth in earnings with 
$32,462.14. 

This year, although Arnold Palmer is playing better than ever, he 
still hustles back home to Latrobe at every chance to hit balls by 
the hour under his father's watchful blue eyes. Palmer has to guard 
constantly against a couple of faults: hurrying his backswing, letting 
the head of the club droop before starting the downward stroke. As 
he swings, he often mutters to himself the four check points 
drummed into him long ago by Deacon Palmer: "Firm grip, slow 
backswing, steady head, watch the overswing," Only once since he 
has been playing has he modified a basic part of his style: at 18, dis- 
covering that he was getting too much left hand in his swing, he 
changed his grip slightly. Many other pros are prone to tinker with 
their swings often to their sorrow, e.g., Gene Littler, 29, who 
messed around with his fine natural form, developed a hitch that 
took a year to cure. 

In tournament play, Palmer relies on nerve, muscle, and the re- 
sults of hundreds of hours of practice. Ideally, he hopes to tee off 
in the morning, before the winds freshen, and pile up an early lead. 
But whatever the time, wind or no wind, rain or shine, Palmer 
plays an aggressive, forcing game. Says one golf official: "Palmer 
will try a shot when the percentages are against him by 40 to 
60. Venturi will never play odds past 50-50." Among the pros, 
Palmer is respected for his skill in the science of "scrambling" or 
"finessing," i.e., finding ingenious means for getting out of trouble. 
At his scrambling best, Palmer can play an intentional hook ("I 
close my stance slightly, drop my right foot back from the line of 
flight, try to swing a little from the inside out"), slice (*1 open 
my stance and swing from the outside in"), find swinging room 
in a thicket, blast a ball out of water. "Some players can hit all 
the standard shots," says Palmer, "but they can't scramble. 
Eighty per cent of the time there's a way out of trouble. You just 
have to know how to look for it." 

Whether scrambling or playing perfect lies, Palmer starts with 
the great advantage of power. "The pros today play a home-run 



For Love if Money 215 

game," says Byron Nelson. With his strength off the tee, Palmer can 
often use his deadly four-iron for his second shot while his rivals 
are flailing away with their woods. In addition, says his friend 
Dow Finsterwald, this season "the best part of Palmer's game is his 
putting." Palmer's putting form is still a matter of argument be- 
tween himself and his father. Arnold Palmer favors a wrist motion, 
the Deacon a pendulum-like arm stroke ("Pap*s theory requires 
more nerves that I have," says Palmer). But whatever the merits of 
his style, Palmer has acquired the confidence necessary to a top 
putter. Says Finsterwald: "When Palmer addresses an 8- or lo-ft. 
putt, by God, he acts like he expects to sink it, which I suppose is 
the way you ought to think." 

To confidence is added concentration. "Sometimes during a 
tournament," says Palmer, "I see Winnie and don't even know it's 
Winnie." Says Bobby Jones, who retired from tournament golf be- 
cause of the wear on his nerves: "The secret of winning tournaments 
is not just hitting the ball. It's how much torture you're willing to 
put yourself through. Palmer is willing to take the torture. Why, 
I've seen the tension drain the color right out of that boy's face." 
Explains Palmer simply: "If you relax, you blow the tournament. 
I get no enjoyment out of the game unless the pressure is on." 

Under such pressure-packed working conditions, a few pros mood- 
ily suspect their fellows of improving their lies after marking their 
balls on the greens. But there is little of that sort of thing, and 
little of the kind of gamesmanship practiced in the 19205 by the great 
Walter Hagen, who used to deflate a field of opponents by grandly 
inquiring, "Well, who's going to be second?" Among the last of 
the sly oldtimers is E. J. ("Dutch") Harrison, 50. With a younger 
player watching, Harrison will occasionally choose the wrong iron 
for a shot, choke up on the grip, curb his swing and loft the ball to 
the green. His opponent, noting the club Harrison has used, will 
select the same one, blithely swing full-out and send his ball soar- 
ing far beyond the green into a trap. 

For the most part, the modem pros are a congenial lot. They 
share in their trade secrets, e.g., heating golf balls with pocket hand- 
warmers fired by lighter fluid, because a warm ball has more bounce 
than a cold one. They share in the physical ailments of their pro- 
fession: back trouble from the constant twisting of the spine (Fin- 
sterwald, Marty Furgol); a torn tendon along the third finger of the 
left hand that exposes a nerve, keeps a player from gripping his 



216 Jim Atwater 

club firmly (Rosburg, Snead, Jack Burke Jr.). They share in their 
social life. Driving some 35,000 miles a year on the tour that be- 
gins in January with the Los Angeles Open and ends in December 
at the Coral Gables (Fla,) Open, professional golfers hunt first for 
motels with swimming pools for the kids, then look around for a 
Laundromat for the diapers accumulated en route. 

Arnie and Winnie Palmer usually make the circuit with Peggy, 
4, and Amy, 20 months, although Palmer sometimes pilots a rented 
plane to a tournament. At night Palmer plays bridge that is as 
bold and bad as his golf is bold and good, dozes contentedly be- 
fore TV horse operas. Says Finsterwald: "He'll watch anything 
with manure in it." So close do the family relationships become 
that Peggy Palmer, watching Finsterwald on television when he 
blew a crucial putt during the Masters, almost burst into tears: 
"Poor Uncle Dow." 

But once on the course, the pros are all business and a big 
business it is. Merely to maintain himself on tour, a professional 
golfer, without a family in tow, must spend about f 1 2,000 a year, 
To get by, many a young golfer sells shares of himself to backers 
who pay him around $200 a week, take back most of his earnings 
for the first few years. One notably sound investment: Billy Casper, 
who got an allowance totaling about $24,000 during a two-year 
period, paid a profit of $30,000. 

For the winners, the rewards are great. The 1960 pro circuit has 
46 tournaments with purses totaling $1,600,000, twice the prize 
money of only four years ago and nearly ten times that of 1939. 
Last year's leading money winner, with $53,167.60, was spare, tee- 
totaling Art Wall Jr., 36, who is just now recovering from a kid- 
ney ailment that sidelined him in February. Seven other pros earned 
more than $30,000 on the tour, doubled that amount with endorse- 
ments, exhibitions, salaries from their home clubs, etc. 

On the basis of his record so far this year, Arnold Palmer seems 
certain to break Ted Kroll's record tournament earnings of 
$72,835.83 in 1956. In addition, he gets a minimum of $1,000 an 
appearance for a golf clinic, a $5,000 salary from the Laurel Valley 
Golf Club in Ligonier, Pa., up to $2,500 for a TV appearance. 
Wilson Sporting Goods Co. pays him some $6,500 a year for using 
its clubs, throws in a bonus of as much as $3,500 when he wins a 
major tournament. 

On tour, Palmer's four suitcases bulge with free Munsingwear 



For Love & Money 217 

shirts (36 of them), Footjoy shoes (eight pairs for golf, seven for 
dress) and Sun State slacks (30 pairs). The National Newspaper 
Syndicate is now distributing Palmer's column on golf, and he is 
now completing negotiations for television commercials for L & M 
cigarettes (which he puffs by the pack on the course). Like the 
other top 26 pros, Palmer gets free use of a white 1960 Pontiac (the 
finicky Finsterwald turned his back in, bought a blue Cadillac 
coupe equipped with everything but a practice green). 

To Arnold Palmer, the game begun so long ago on the Latrobe 
golf course has obviously been good. But Palmer plays it for more 
than mere money; he plays it out of love. His ambition is to cement 
his place in golfing history by building up a record of victories in 
the Masters, the U. S. Open, the British Open and the P. G. A. 
Fellow professionals need no such dramatic proof of Palmer's 
prowess: they already rank him as golfing's best. 



GOLF MAGIC 
By Gene Cuneo 

From The Erie (Pa.) Times 
Copyright, , 1960, The Erie (Pa.) Times 



Akron, O. What is the magic of this golf game which on a hot 
Thursday afternoon a normal working day can attract 12,625 
fans for the opening round of the 42nd annual PGA championships? 

Golf, friends, is a game of many facets. It's the color of Sam 
Snead's straw hat ... the carnival-like tents which are present 
everywhere . . . the temper tantrums of Tommy Bolt who yester- 
day heaved one of his clubs into a pond . . . the clicking of television 
and movie cameras which follow the stars. 

It's the caddy, who says, "we had a good round" when his golfer 
breaks par, and answers, "He wasn't so good today," when his man 
went sour. The cream of society ladies who wouldn't be caught 
dead wearing slacks any place except a golf course ... an Arnold 
Palmer saying, 'Til be happy to shoot even par for four rounds/' 
after he's already had a three under on opening day. 

It's the elderly dapper man complete with white shirt, tie, suit, 
straw hat and cane strutting up the hills as if to show he's still a 
youngster . . . the golfers' wives who seemingly are very happy, 
but actually wish their husband would take some office job so she 
could live a normal life with her two kids. . . . The golfer, who 
spent his entire life in the north, but has picked up a decided 
southern accent somewhere on the tour. 

It's the clicking of typewriters in the pressroom where over 200 
reporters are all trying to write something different. . . . The 
cry of some kid just as a pro is ready to make a putt . . . and the 
mother chastising the kid for yelling when actually it's her fault 
for bringing him along. . . . The oohs and aahs of the gallery when 
one of their favorites makes a great iron shot. 

It's the smile of a Lionel Hebert who has just three-putted the 
i5th hole after a great shot to within 12 feet of the pin. . . . The 
drunk who paid four dollars to get in and then slept near a 
tree until the gendarmes removed him politely. . . . The poker 

218 



Golf Magic 219 

face of Ben Hogan, who still calculates a short putt as if Ms last 
buck was riding on it. 

Golf is a game where workingmen make excuses that they're 
ill and then show up to work the next day with a deep-red tan and 
hastily explain they fell asleep under the heat lamp. . . . The parties 
which follow where everyone tries to impress everyone else that 
they knew Palmer, Snead, Hogan, etc., when . . . it's the joviality 
of Porky Oliver who has just had a brush with death and is hope- 
ful of complete recovery after a serious operation. 

It's the tired gal behind the concession counter who says, "I'm 
so tired I'm silly. And I suppose when I get home my husband is 
going to say, I'm hungry.". . . The smartly dressed Burns Detective 
Agency men who watch for pickpockets, gate-crashers and what- 
have-you ... the sweat pouring off the brow of a tournament chair- 
man like Loren Tibbals, who has the job of seeing that everything 
goes right. It's the newspaperman who has visited the refreshment 
tent once too often and reads to you what he thinks is the greatest 
lead of the tournament. . . . You agree or you wind up writing a 
new one for him. 

It's the Eddie Griffiths of Youngstown, a now home pro who is 
making a last big shot at the big-time with an opening round 71 
. . . it's the unknown Bob Crowley birdieing the rugged 4&5-yard 
i8th par-four hole. It's the Frank Harneds, who are chiefly teaching 
pros but can make it big if they can cash in on just one tourna- 
ment like the PGA. . . . The perspiring heavy-set woman who is 
sorry she didn't agree and let her husband come alone. 

It's the kid with the stick with the point on the end going around 
picking up all the loose papers . . . and so many pieces he stabs 
six or seven times before he disgustedly reaches down and picks 
it up with his hands. . . . The preciseness of Gary Middlecoff who 
evidently feels he is the only person on the entire golf course. . . . 
The tired feeling which hits golfers and gallery alike around 8 
o'clock. It's the swishing drive of George Bayer. 

The muscular build of bull-like Mike Souchak. . . . The determi- 
nation of comeback trail kid Art Wall ... the sweet, Western 
Union gals who handle your copy. All in all, it is a great game. 
Some day we're going to take a day off and enjoy watching in- 
stead of covering one of these tournaments. 



TENNIS 



FRANTIC TASKMASTER OF TENNIS 
By Melvin Durslag 

From The Saturday Evening Post 
Copyright, , 1960, Melvin Durslag 



In 1947, while earning his living as an amateur tennis player, 
Jack Kramer was invited by a businessmen's club in Las Vegas, 
Nevada, to promote a local tournament. The arrangements were 
very private. Jack was to bring some top amateurs to Las Vegas 
for expenses which he was to underwrite personally; in return, the 
club was to give him 50 per cent of the profits. 

Unfortunately, the tournament failed to yield any profits. Jack's 
debut as a tennis promoter laid an egg at a cost to him of $1500. 
Deciding to recoup at craps, he dropped $1500 more. 

Kramer came away from Las Vegas a sad but wiser man. "It 
occurred to me that day," he says, "that a guy who loses a bundle 
in his own racket and tries to get even in someone else's is com- 
pounding his stupidity. I have never since thrown good money 
after bad." 

Jack's promoting, if not his crap shooting, has improved notice- 
ably. The proprietor today of the oldest floating tennis game on 
earth, Kramer circles the globe with his troupe of skilled profes- 
sionals, staging tournaments before widely diversified galleries. 
His athletes have performed before maharajas of India on one day, 
before natives of Sudan on the next, and, two days later, have enter- 
tained the international set on the French Riviera. Kramer once 
accepted $1000 from a Hawaiian sugar company to stage matches 
on the island of Maui at seven a.m., thus permitting company 
laborers in the stands to report to the fields at nine. 

Tennis has brought many things to the young promoter, such 
as a sizable bank account, a fashionable home in West Los Angeles, 
substantial real-estate and business holdings, blue-chip securities 



222 Melvin Durslag 

and an eighth interest in a producing gas well which, he says, could 
yield him $1,000,000 over the next twenty years. 

However, it hasn't been easy. For years now Jack figuratively 
has been sitting atop high explosives with a temperamental star, 
Richard (Pancho) Gonzales, who has taken Kramer to court, created 
near riots in stadiums around the world, antagonized fellow players 
and endangered his own life not to mention the life of Kramer's 
tour in speeding hot rods. 

Then there has been Jack's running battle with the tennis fathers 
of Australia, spawning ground of some of his best talent. Australians 
have never become reconciled to Kramer's practice of luring away 
their Davis Cup aces with sordid gold. When Kramer negotiated 
with Aussie stars Ashley Cooper and Mai Anderson last year, a full- 
page headline in the tabloid Sydney Sun blared: KRAMER TO 
BUY DAVIS CUP TEAM! People spotting him on the streets in 
Australia shouted tartly, "Go home, Jake!" 

Because of widely dissimilar laws abroad governing the re- 
moval of local currency, Kramer has encountered serious problems 
getting his money home. Sometimes he doesn't. In several places he 
has taken his payment in the form of airline-transportation 
vouchers. From Australia he is now taking race horses in lieu of 
cash. "Dollar bills don't eat hay and oats," complains Jack. And 
for tennis entertainment rendered in Czechoslovakia this year, he 
will be paid in glassware and cameras, which, after paying duty 
charges, he hopes to unload at a profit on the United States market. 

Kramer's troubles don't end with money, He is forever having 
to soothe the angry wives of some of his players, who object to long 
separations from their husbands. "The wives are out to ruin me," 
groans Jack, a father of five all boys. His own wife doesn't relish 
the idea of a traveling husband either. 

Amid all these distractions Kramer must keep a clear head for 
the harrowing poker sessions in which he and his well-heeled hire- 
lings engage on tour. Those hours not occupied with tennis, eating 
and sleeping are often passed in a nonstop poker game for which 
the participants man their stations in airplanes, hotels, Turkish 
baths and locker rooms. A hot poker match in Seattle once lasted 
thirty-six hours, with players staggering their sleep so as not to dis- 
rupt the continuity of the game. 

A former amateur champion who won practically all the major 
international titles, Kramer broke into professional tennis as a 



Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis 223 

playing star in 1948. "I had been scratching out a meager living in 
amateur tennis/' he recalls. "I also had a side job for sixty dollars 
a week with a meat-packing company. When I started to catch 
colds walking in and out of the icebox, I decided that honest work 
wasn't for me. I joined up with the pros." 

In 1953, when his peak playing days were coming to a close, Jack 
decided to become a promoter. He organized his first tour by sign- 
ing himself for a series of matches with the dashing Australian, 
Frank Sedgman. The two performed under the auspices of World 
Tennis, Incorporated, a Nevada company with Jack Kramer as 
president, Mrs. Jack Kramer as vice president and Mrs. David 
Kramer Jack's mother as secretary-treasurer. To this day the 
organization remains intact. 

"I gave Sedgman a good plastering," says Jack, "but World Ten- 
nis still cleared ninety-three thousand dollars on the tour, plus 
ten thousand more on program sales. We have been solid ever 
since." 

Today Kramer shepherds the finest herd of tennis players in the 
world, some of whom earn more in a season than Mickey Mantle 
or Stan Musial. In certain years they have even approached the 
high financial strata of Eddie Arcaro and Willie Shoemaker. Lew 
Hoad, the husky Australian, has made as much as $138,750 in a 
year. Frank Sedgman has earned $125,000. As for Gonzales, after 
picking up $82,000 in the first seven months of 1958, he quit the 
tour for the rest of the year. For tax reasons Pancho found it un- 
profitable to continue. Last year, of the nine key men who per- 
formed for Kramer, Jack says that the lowest-paid received $25,000. 

The original format of the pro-tennis tour called for a series 
of matches between the two hottest players in the sport. Before he 
turned promoter, Kramer met Gonzales 123 times one year on 
courts throughout the world. Jack crushed him, 96-27. Subsequently 
Gonzales took on Frank Sedgman, Tony Trabert, Ken Rosewall and 
Lew Hoad. Lesser stars were recruited to play preliminary matches 

each year. B 

"The match-play idea began to present serious problems and nad 
to be tossed out," explains Kramer. "To start with, if one man got 
too far out in front, fans began to lose interest in the tour. Then 
if the series was close, we were often accused of rigging the matches 
to keep business alive." 

In 1959 Kramer contrived a new idea of nightly tournaments in- 



224 Melvin Durslag 

volving his top players. The boys battled for prize money on each 
outing, with the winners receiving the big end of the purse. Interest 
in the tour grew considerably. 

This year Jack has expanded the idea. On January twenty- 
eighth, in San Francisco, five of his leading stars Gonzales, Trabert, 
Rosewall, Pancho Segura and the Peruvian rookie, Alex Olmedo 
began a sixty-five-match "World Series," worth upward of 
$100,000 in purses. In a period of three months they will have 
played thirty-five matches in the United States and Canada, twelve 
in Australia, ten in Europe, four in South Africa and two each in 
Japan and the Philippines. 

At the conclusion of this series in late April, Kramer will sum- 
mon other pros in his stable to join the original five in twelve 
round-robin tournaments, each for $15,000 in prize money. After 
these tournaments end in August, Kramer will finish out the year 
by splitting his personnel into teams and dispatching them for 
exhibitions around the globe. 

"Even if we don't make money at every stop," says Jack, "we're 
determined to make the world conscious of our game/' 

Since a player's income depends, for the most part, upon his 
ability to win, the tennis on the Kramer tour gets fiercely competi- 
tive. Yet surprising camaraderie exists among these travelers who 
roam the earth together. 

"Gonzales gets moody and standoffish," says Trabert, a six-year 
veteran of the Kramer company, "but the others are pretty com- 
patible. Everyone takes a murderous ribbing, the Australians es- 
pecially." 

The spending habits of the Australian members provide steady 
ammunition for the others. "Except for Lew Hoad, who is a big 
sport, the Aussie boys tend to be close with a shilling," says Trabert. 
"They prefer to carry their own luggage and eat in the less expen- 
sive restaurants. Of course, they're sensible in wanting to save their 
money, but brother, do they get clobbered about it!" 

In a radio interview one day in Perth, Australia, Pancho Segura, 
the whimsical Ecuadorian, was asked to recount his greatest thrill 
in tennis. Pancho thought hard for a moment, then replied, "I 
would say that my greatest thrill in tennis was the night Frank 
Sedgman took me to dinner." 

Each member of the Kramer troupe has been saddled by his con- 
sorts with a private nickname. For example, when a newspaper 



Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis 225 

critic once described Gonzales as a "cheese champion," Pancho's col- 
leagues quickly seized upon this to call him "Gorgonzola," since 
shortened to "Gorgo." Trabert is called "Flapjaw" because o his 
propensity for talking. Rosewall, a small man of almost frail con- 
struction, is known as "Muscles." 

Segura acquired the name "Sneaky" several years ago in Ama- 
rillo, Texas. Pancho at the time was playing preliminary matches 
for a flat salary of $300 a week. At the end of nine weeks he had 
earned $2700 in tennis and had lost $2800 in poker. 

"When we hit Amarillo," says Kramer, "Pancho made a big haul 
in the poker game. He won fifteen hundred dollars. So as not to 
yield to temptation and lose it back, he quietly moved out of our 
hotel and into another. That was when the boys started calling him 
'Sneaky/ " 

Kramer is known, among other things, as "Big Daddy/' Because 
of the frequency with which his touring family plays and the 
vast distances that must be covered, Big Daddy is often pressed 
hard to meet schedules. For example, his athletes last year com- 
peted in Vienna on a Thursday night and left the next day for 
London, where they arrived at 5:30 p.m. They had only time for 
tea before motoring to Wembley Stadium for matches that began 
at 7:30. 

The next morning they took off for Barcelona, a "late town," 
where the matches don't begin until 10:30 p.m. The players got 
to bed at 2:45 a.m., then rose at six to catch an 8:30 plane for 
Madrid. 

Still, nothing in Kramer's experience on the road compares with 
what the players call the "Death March of 1957." In a period of 
twelve days they made a total of eleven appearances in eight cities, 
spread all the way from South Africa to the Philippines. 

Although the Death March was reasonably profitable, collecting 
the proceeds wasn't simple. Currency laws in South Africa and 
British East Africa, for instance, forbade Kramer's taking cash 
beyond the borders. It was, however, permissible for the local 
promoters to transfer the funds to Kramer's account in Australia, 
a fellow member of the British Commonwealth of Nations. Jack 
settled for this. Even though most of his money is frozen in Aus- 
tralia, too, he spends considerable time there and can use it ad- 
vantageously within the country. 

Kramer couldn't leave India and Pakistan with his money either, 



226 Melvin Durslag 

but he was able to use it to buy transportation vouchers from inter- 
national airlines maintaining offices there. In Thailand arrange- 
ments were made through the government for Jack's money to be 
shipped directly to the United States. In the free-money port of 
Hong Kong he was paid in United States currency. But in the 
Philippines 15000 in pesos is still frozen solid. 

Next to the United States, Australia is Kramer's richest market. 
Because the law there forbids foreigners from taking more than 
$15,000 a year in cash from the country, Jack had to invent a plan 
for getting a healthy part of his assets to America. The solution 
occurred to him two years ago. He made a deal with a Thorough- 
bred breeding farm near Melbourne in which he agreed to give 
the owners 50 per cent of his Australian tennis profits for 50 per 
cent of the race horses foaled on the farm. 

No law prohibits Kramer from bringing the horses to the United 
States, and to date Jack has received ten Thoroughbreds from 
Australia. The animals race under the colors of Kramer's Racquet 
Stable and bear such names as Top Spin, Base Line, Tennis King, 
Lob Valley and Big Pancho. 

Jack sold a colt named Drop Volley for $40,000 last year to 
Fred Turner Jr., the owner of Kentucky Derby winner Tomy Lee. 
Turner also offered $25,000 for a Kramer filly, Service Line, but 
stipulated that Jack absorb the sales tax, amounting to $1000. 
When Kramer refused, the deal collapsed. 

"What a rock-head I was," laments Jack. "Two months later, 
Service Line was running in sixty-five-hundred-dollar claiming 
races." 

Even though he's racing Australian horses Kramer doesn't delude 
himself into thinking that the best wishes of that nation go with 
him. Over the last seven years he has delivered damaging blows 
to Australia's Davis Cup chances by snatching the best amateur 
tennis talent there. Right now six of his top players are Aussies 
Hoad, Rosewall, Sedgman, Cooper, Anderson and Mervyn Rose. 

After smoldering for a long time, the Australian Tennis Associa- 
tion finally erupted last year and barred Kramer's tour from the 
leading clubs in the country. The rhubarb had been brought to a 
head when Jack asked that life members of the clubs, who had been 
occupying their boxes free at the pro matches, be made to pay ad- 
mission. The association countered by ejecting Kramer from all 
its dubs. He promptly had an eighteen-ton portable court built 



Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis 227 

and vanned it throughout Australia, staging matches in public en- 
closures. 

Jack dropped $17,000 on the venture, but he figured it cost the 
Tennis Association $67,000 in rentals. The warring factions have 
agreed to a compromise this year. Kramer will pay a flat sum to 
each club, which will return him ten shillings about $1.10 for 
each life member who comes in free. "Naturally," says Jack, "this 
hasn't strengthened my popularity in Australia/* 

Tall, freshly scrubbed and youthful-looking for his thirty-eight 
years, Kramer is a dynamic individual who often works eighteen 
hours a day. It is not uncommon for him to get up in the middle of 
the night in his California home to keep telephone appointments 
with people in Australia, Europe or the Orient. He feels that busi- 
ness is going to pot if his phone bill runs less than $1000 a month. 

Jack was born in Las Vegas on August i, 1921, the son of a rail- 
road engineer. He attended two colleges, Southern California and 
Rollins (Florida), but lasted only briefly in each. "I was so busy 
flying around the country picking up money in amateur tourna- 
ments that I didn't have time to study/' he says. 

Kramer admits readily that his thirst for culture has never been 
overpowering. In Rome he has passed within blocks of the historic 
Colosseum without taking the time to see it. He has skipped the 
Pyramids near Cairo and ignored the Taj Mahal in Agra. He has 
felt no compulsion to watch the changing of the guards in London, 
nor to inspect the masterpieces in the Paris Louvre. Persuaded once 
to visit the Palace of Versailles, Jack walked out after seeing three 
rooms. 

With more enthusiasm and no coaxing he has taken in the horse 
races at Ascot, bet the jai alai in Madrid, tested a roulette system 
in Monte Carlo and rolled the dice in Havana. 

Kramer can afford such pastimes. He takes an annual salary of 
$29,800 from World Tennis, Incorporated. His yearly income from 
stocks and real estate amounts to about $16,000. He harvests $15,000 
more from his advisory position with Wilson Sporting Goods, plus 
substantial sums from Jack Kramer Sportswear, of which he is part 
owner. He also benefits from a one-third interest in the Los Serranos 
Country Club in Pomona, California. According to close friends 
Kramer is good for upward of $75,000 a year over and above his 
tennis profits and the income from his gas well. 

Jack says he could relax and enjoy his money more if he could 



228 Melvin Durslag 

arrange a placid relationship with his star and principal meal 
ticket, Pancho Gonzales, or "Gorgo." 

"Gorgo causes me worries he doesn't even understand," com- 
plains Kramer, "He can't see, for instance, why I would want him 
to give up drag racing in which he drives hopped-up cars at crazy 
speeds. He has no sense of public relations and doesn't feel his 
co-operation in promoting our program is necessary. Then he blows 
his top in matches and riles fans and other players. All you 
can say in his behalf is that he's the gamest competitor in tennis, 
good-hearted, and the most honest guy I've met." 

The long-standing disagreement between Kramer and Gonzales 
dates back to 1955, when Jack signed Pancho to a seven-year con- 
tract calling for a guarantee of $15,000 a year, plus 20 per cent 
of the gross of all matches played outside the North American 
zone and 15 per cent above the first $2 00,000 in North America; 
but the gross hit only $173,000. In the first year under these terms, 
Pancho walloped Tony Trabert, seventy-four matches to twenty- 
seven. Gonzales earned $48,000, while Trabert, working on a per- 
centage of 30 per cent within North America and 35 per cent out- 
side, made $95,000. Pancho blew up and demanded that Kramer 
void the contract. 

To placate Gonzales, Kramer gave him a 5 per cent bonus the 
following year, but Pancho seized upon this to claim breach of 
contract. He informed the promoter that their agreement was no 
longer valid. To prove that it was, Kramer spent $3500 taking 
Gonzales to court. Says Jack, "It cost me two things money for 
legal fees and Gorgo's friendship." 

Gonzales has cost Kramer money in still other ways. The victim 
of a bad bounce in Jacksonville, Florida, Pancho smashed his serve 
viciously into the air. The ball exploded against the face of a clock 
suspended sixty feet above the court. Kramer got a repair bill for 
$137. In Adelaide, Australia, an angered Pancho clubbed a micro- 
phone with his racket. Cost to Kramer: eighty dollars. 

The sleeping habits of Gonzales provide more grief for Kramer. 
When the troupe is in the United States, the athletes travel mostly 
in two station wagons provided by the promoter. Pancho, how- 
ever, rides solo in his own vehicle. Gonzales insists he is not anti- 
social, as his colleagues have charged, but merely sleeps on a differ- 
ent schedule. 

"I rarely can fall asleep at night after a match," he explains. "I 



Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis 229 

figure there's no sense getting into bed and tossing and turning 
for eight hours. So I drive all night. For instance, the matches 
ended at midnight in Teaneck, New Jersey, last year. While the 
others went to sleep I hopped in my car and headed for the next 
stop on the tour, Toronto, about five hundred miles away. I drove 
all night and arrived in Niagara Falls about ten in the morning. I 
checked into a motel, slept for a while and took off for Toronto 
that night." 

After being awake all night Pancho often will be deep in sleep 
the next day while the other players are holding press conferences, 
conducting clinics and making radio and television appearances. 

"He takes unfair advantage," says Lew Hoad. "He's in the sack 
resting all day while we wear ourselves down with extracurricular 
stuff. Then he's fresh for the matches that night." 

Pancho's defense is simple. "I'm a tennis player, not a public- 
relations expert," he says. "Since I don't always sleep at night, I need 
rest the next day. When you follow the hard routine that we do, 
rest is more important than promotion." 

Relations between Gonzales and Kramer sometimes become so 
strained that they don't speak to each other for weeks, except in 
the poker games, where a truce automatically prevails. When the 
full complement is traveling, the principals in the poker game are 
usually Kramer, Gonzales, Segura, Sedgman, Rose and a player 
representing the "entry" of Trabert, Hoad and Rosewall. 

Trabert and Rosewall don't care to risk large sums. Though 
Hoad is more than willing, he plays poker so* poorly that the regu- 
lars won't permit him in the game. "Our consciences won't let us 
take his dough," says Kramer. Consequently, Hoad invests with 
Trabert and Rosewall, with Trabert usually playing the hands. 

When Sedgman first joined the tour he was reluctant, with his 
limited knowledge of poker, to sit in with the sharpshooting veter- 
ans. To encourage his participation, the vets agreed to refund him 
25 per cent of his losses. Now a seasoned player, Sedgman no longer 
receives this rebate. 

"The big wheels in the game are Kramer and Gonzales," says 
Segura. "The size of the pots usually depends upon their moods. 
If they get mad at each other, the price of poker goes up for all 
the players." 

Almost disconsolately Gonzales declares, "The game has gotten 
a little tame. We used to play table stakes. Now it's mostly twenty- 



230 Melvin Durslag 

dollar limit To spice it up here and there we'll play crazy betting 
games with wild cards, like one we call 'super exhausto.' " 

Super exhausto is a variation of seven card stud. One recent 
session is well remembered by Kramer. "I caught a royal flush," 
says Jack, "and finished third. Segura topped me with five tens. 
We built up a pot of thirteen hundred bucks for Gonzales, who 
had five aces." 

Another favorite pastime of the Kramer travelers is pitching 
coins. Participants line up abreast and toss their pieces of silver 
for accuracy to a designated spot or object. Locked in a hard 
doubles match one night in England, the boys spent the inter- 
mission aiming coins at a wastebasket for two pounds a toss 
about $5.60. 

Throwing to a sidewalk line one Sunday morning in the quiet 
and sedate city of Christchurch, New Zealand, the players had a 
close call with the law. A policeman, shocked at such activity on 
Sunday, threatened to jail them if they didn't disperse immediately. 

In a Sydney hotel the boys had dressed for dinner and were 
walking to the elevator when Segura noticed that the carpet in the 
corridor ended about six inches short of one of the rooms. It was 
quickly decided they would lag to the end of the carpet, with the 
man farthest away paying for dinner. Kramer picked up the tab. 

Gambling losses aside, Jack feels that his future prospects are 
bright if he can surmount two obstacles. First, he must mollify the 
wives of some of his leading players. The ladies have been object- 
ing more strenuously than ever to long separations from their tour- 
ing husbands. Largely for this reason Trabert and Hoad withdrew 
from foreign travel at the end of last year, and Sedgman recently 
followed suit. Trabert has resumed touring, but Hoad will remain 
in Australia for several months. Mrs. Pancho Segura was granted 
a divorce in Los Angeles last month on the grounds that her hus- 
band spent ten months or more each year away from home on the 
tennis tour. 

"The wives start out anxious for their husbands to play and ac- 
cumulate some cash," says Kramer. "Then they want to put on the 
brakes and keep their men home until they need money again. In 
truth many of the men also dislike leaving their families. I, too, 
would prefer to stay home. But how can I run a tour every year with 
stay-at-homes?" 

Jack encourages the players to bring their mates on tour, but 



Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis 231 

the expense is a deterrent to the athletes. So is the fact that most 
of them have children. Two years ago, when the troupe played 
Europe, Kramer invited all the wives and their progeny to vacation 
in a large chateau he proposed to rent in the south of France, But 
the wives including his own politely rejected the offer. "They 
told me that a vacation with kids is no vacation/* says Jack. "So 
the battle goes on/* 

Kramer's second serious problem is his major breadwinner, 
Gonzales. Periodically Pancho threatens (a) to quit playing abroad, 
or (b) to quit altogether or (c) to jump his contract and start a rival 
tour. Kramer books matches as much as a year in advance, but 
he is rarely certain until the last few days whether Gonzales will go. 

"I honestly see a ray of hope for Pancho, though," says Jack. 
"For instance, he used to travel on tour in a sleek, souped-up car 
that could do a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. I pleaded 
with him last year to get something safer. Finally he bought a 
passenger pickup truck. 

"Next he told me that he was thinking about giving up fast cars 
altogether. I was delighted. Then he added, *I bought a speed- 
boat and I'm learning to water ski/ " 



THERE ONCE WAS A TENNIS PLAYER 
By Stan Isaacs 

From Newsday (Garden City, L. I.) 
Copyright, , 1960, Newsday, Inc. 



Forest Hills Once upon a time, there was a young man who 
came from the distant little land of Nepal to the great country of 
the United States to study international relations. Before starting 
his graduate studies at Compton U. in California, the young man 
spent the summer in the fabled city of New York studying in a 
United Nations interneship program. 

One day, while riding the wondrous subway, the young man 
saw a poster announcing that the national tennis championships 
of the U. S. would be held shortly at the famous West Side Tennis 
Club. The young man, who had played some tennis off and on 
during weekends in Nepal where there are no more than three 
dozen players decided that he, too, would like to play in the 
tournament. It was not that he was presumptuous or anything be- 
cause in the only thing resembling a tournament ever held in Nepal, 
he had been the best player. 

So the young man called the number of the U. S. Lawn Tennis 
Association listed on the poster and asked for an entry blank. He 
filled in all the particulars and, in the space where it asked for his 
record, he noted that he would be the first Nepalese tennis player 
to play not only in the U. S. championships, but in any tourna- 
ment outside of Nepal. He enclosed the $7.50 entry fee and sent 
off his application. 

Shortly afterward, he told an American friend he had sent an 
entry blank to the big tournament. The friend laughed and 
laughed. "They'll never accept you/' he said. "Maybe they will," the 
young man answered. So they made a bet. If the young man were 
accepted, his friend would buy him a dinner. If not, he would buy 
his friend a dinner. 

A few weeks later, the young man said to his friend, "Guess 
what? I've been accepted." This was only four days before the 
start of the tournament, so he rushed off to the tennis club to 

232 



There Once Was a Tennis Player 233 

see what the other players were like. After he ate the dinner of 
course. 

Imagine his dismay when he saw that the acres and acres of 
practicing tennis players were better than he. Much better. Why 
he had never seen such magnificent players before. Now some people 
would imagine that the young man would have become faint-hearted 
at this point and dropped out of the tournament. Not this young 
man, though. By his code of honor, it would have been unsports- 
manlike to drop out. 

When the big first day of the tournament arrived and he took 
the court against his opponent, a player from the great dominion 
of Brooklyn, he was nervous. After all, he never had played on a 
grass court before. And it was evident almost immediately that his 
opponent was much better. Naturally. But the young man did the 
best he could and managed to win a few games. When it was over, 
his opponent came over and said, "You will be better with more 
experience." 

It is a peculiar thing, but true, nevertheless, that except for his 
friend nobody knew any of the young man's story until a curious 
reporter (in both senses of the word) approached him after the 
match. 

When the young man politely recited his story, the reporter 
accustomed to whopping tales from baseball players and other 
scallywags at first thought his leg was being pulled. But he listened 
and studied the young man with the dark complexion, noble aqui- 
line nose, jet-black silken hair and deep, serious brown eyes, and 
he realized that the young man was telling the truth. "I think 
I would have done better if it had not been on grass," the young 
man said a number of times. 

The reporter was struck by a curious observation. At this time of 
year, he thought, we send our young men over to Nepal to climb 
their highest mountains; this young man tried to scale the heights 
of our biggest tournament. 

"Do you live near the great Himalaya Mountains?" the reporter 
asked. 

"Well, when I look out of my bed in the morning," the young 
man said, "I can see Annapurna. Mt. Everest is only 70 miles 
away, too, but I can't see it because some others are in the way." 

The reporter asked the young man about the Abominable Snow- 
man people talk so much about these days. "Nobody has seen him/* 



234 Stan Isaacs 

the young man said, "but it pays us to keep the myth alive. Our gov- 
ernment collects about $2,000 per expedition to climb the moun- 
tains or to look for the Abominable Snowman. They did find tracks 
there recently, you know, I imagine it might be some great bear 
or something." 

The reporter wondered why the young man was studying inter- 
national relations. 

''Well, my uncle is the prime minister of Nepal/' the young man 
said. 

"The prime minister/' the reporter said, almost dropping his 
notebook. "The highest-official-in-the-land prime minister?" 

"Yes/ 5 the young man said. "His name is B. F. Koirala. There is 
a king, too." 

He said he had not put that piece of information on his entry 
blank because "I don't see that it has anything to do with my 
tennis." The reporter agreed and left shortly afterward, clutching 
his notes. 

If anybody ever asks you, the young man's name was Shail 
Kumar and he lost Friday to Don Rubell, 6-0, 6-2, 6-1. Once upon 
a time. 



HOCKEY 



DATE WITH DESTINY 
By Don Selby 

From The San Francisco Examiner 
Copyright, , 1960, The San Francisco Examiner 



The sensational United States ice hockey team, smashing, crash- 
ing outfit that has added a new depth to the meaning of determi- 
nation and courage in sports, kept its date with destiny today. 

The team that wouldn't believe it didn't have a chance cap- 
tured the ice hockey championships of these eighth and greatest 
of all Olympic Winter Games and did it in the same spine tingling 
fashion that has made Coach Jack Riley's crew the most inspiring 
force of an incredibly inspiring show. 

Trailing Czechoslovakia by 4-3 going into the third and final 
period of a game that almost had to be slightly anticlimactic after 
the tremendous emotional impact of U. S. upset triumphs over 
Canada and Russia, the dynamic Americans slammed home six 
goals in the last 20 minutes to forge their fifth consecutive tri- 
umph, 9-4. 

The victory left the United States as the only undefeated team 
in the Olympic tournament, nailing down our third gold medal of 
the Games. 

Canada, which would have taken the crown had the U. S. faltered, 
grabbed the silver medal by defeating Russia, 8-5, in a rugged fray 
marked by the U.S.S.R/s scoring of a goal for the other team. 

The outcome left Canada with a 4-1 record and Russia with a 
2-2-1 record, good for third place. 

In today's other game, Sweden scored its first triumph of the 
championship round by beating winless Germany, 8-2. 

After the final game of the tournament, the crowd gave a stand- 
ing ovation to the teams that had taught many an uninitiated spec- 
tator what an exciting game ice hockey can be. For many it was the 
highlight of the entire show. 

255 



236 Don Selby 

Riley's raiders broke open their game with electrifying sudden- 
ness. 

They scored the tying and go-ahead goals within a span of one 
minute and 41 seconds. A few minutes later they turned the affair 
into an out and out rout with three more goals within one minute 
and three seconds. 

Roger Christian, ^-year-old Warroad, Minn., carpenter, ac- 
counted for four of the U. S. goals, including three in the final 
period. And all four of them were set up by his little brother Bill. 

Bob Cleary was the only other American to score more than 
one goal. 

When the ice hockey officials made up the schedule, they figured, 
with considerable justification, that the Canada-Russia game would 
be the gold medal decider. So they slated that fray for the prime 
i p.m. time slot of this, the final day of competition. 

The United States and Czechoslovakia were supposed to be out 
of first place contention by this time and so were matched at the 
unearthly hour of 8 a.m. 

Thus it was that only a few hundred spectators were in Blyth 
Arena when the team that has stood everyone on his ear charged out 
in quest of its title clinching conquest. 

The Americans, probably a little flat after their almost super- 
human effort against Russia the day before, were behind almost 
before they knew the game had begun. 

The Czechs scored on their opening drive, Miroslav Vlach do- 
ing the honors with the game only eight seconds old. 

The Americans retaliated swiftly with a goal by Weldon Olsen at 
4:19 and another by Bob McVey at 9:32. 

Then, an unusual thing happened. With two men in the penalty 
box, the shorthanded Czechs somehow managed to shake loose 
Vlastimil Bubnik behind the U. S. defense. 

Apparently figuring he was a sitting duck back in his cage, U. S. 
Goalie Jack McCartan, hero of the wins over Canada and Russia, 
moved out to challenge Bubnik, but the Czech right wing cleverly 
evaded him and slammed the puck into the unprotected goal to tie 
the score again at 2-2. 

Roger Christian, taking a beautiful pass from his brother right 
in front of the goal, tallied the first of his four goals at 13:33, only to 
see Czechoslovakia's Frantisek Vanek put away the goal that left the 
score tied, 3-3, at the end of the first period. 



Date With Destiny 237 

The Czechs scored the lone goal of the second period on a brilliant 
solo by Vlach, who deftly maneuvered the puck through three 
challenging Americans, then smashed it past McCartan. 

The way this affair was progressing, it appeared very much as if 
the United States might have hung its gold medal hopes on a Rus- 
sian victory over Canada, the only team that had a chance of over- 
taking our boys going into the final championship round. 

During the intermission between the second and third periods, 
there occurred another of the many acts of outstanding sportsman- 
ship and international good will that have marked these games. 

The Russian hockey captain Nikolai Sologubov suggested to the 
Americans that they use oxygen and told them where to find a 
cylinder of it. If the whiffs the Yanks took didn't pep them up, the 
reaction to the Soviets' warm offering did. 

In the final chapter, the Yanks were once again the blazing blade- 
men of the day before, an aggressive, hell for leather outfit that 
played with a frightening fury. 

Another factor in the resurgence of the Americans, quite likely, 
was the swarm of spectators who had arrived by now. They weren't 
so numerous as to pack the Arena. It had been packed for the last 
two games in which the United States participated, but the 3,000 on 
hand were extremely vocal. 

In quick succession, Roger Christian and Bob deary rammed in 
the tying and go-ahead goals. Then, in an even swifter and more 
deadly bombardment, Bob Cleary scored with an assist from his 
brother Bill; Bill Cleary passed to John Mayasich, who took a shot 
that richocheted off Roger Christian's stick straight into the netting, 
and talented Bill Cleary took off on a spectacular one-man sortie, 
zigging and zagging through the four opponents, including the 
goalie, and flipped the puck into the unprotected goal. 

Suddenly it was no longer a contest. 

The United States needed Roger Christian's final goal about as 
much as I need these stretch pants now that this great show is over. 



YACHTING 



MAN OVERBOARD! 
By Bill Robinson 

From Yachting 
Copyright, , Yachting Publishing Corp. 



''Unless I had been through it, I would never have believed it. I 
didn't think anyone could ever have been recovered under those 
conditions." This was the way Jack Weston characterized his experi- 
ence in the Bermuda Race aboard Charlie Ulmer's Block Island 40 
yawl Scylla when he fell overboard at the height of the storm in the 
early hours of Thursday morning, June 23. 

Weston, who spent between 40 minutes, and an hour in the water 
(everyone was too busy to keep an exact log) said there were several 
keys to the happy ending to his fantastic experience. Most important 
was the new type of water light made by Guest Products. 

"Without the light, it never would have been possible/* Weston 
said, "and to think that I kidded Charlie about spending all that 
money when he showed the light to me before the race. The light 
costs about 80 bucks, but I'll have to say it was well worth it." 

Other factors in the successful rescue were the extremely thorough 
preparations for the race made by Ulmer, excellent organization 
and cool performance, with no element of panic, by Scylla' s crew, a 
spare engine battery among her stores, and the fact that Weston is 
a strong, experienced swimmer. Although he played down this part 
of it, it is obvious that he is a better than average swimmer. He was 
a football player and competitive swimmer in college and has been 
around the water all his life. The battery, incidentally, was Weston's 
pre-race present to the boat. 

Weston is a 35-year-old salesman from Eastchester, N. Y., married 
and has three children. Although this was his first Bermuda Race, 
he has been sailing out of the City Island area all his life on Long 
Island Sound around-the-buoys and major middle distance races. 

238 



Man Overboard 

He has specialized in sail handling and foredeck work. He Is stocky, 
muscular, youthful-looking and in very good physical condition. 

The story of his ordeal starts with the build-up of stormy weather 
through Wednesday afternoon and evening. As the storm increased, 
Scylla went through a series of sail changes, shortening down gradu- 
ally. Like almost everyone in the race, her crew thought the storm 
was a short squall that would soon be over, and were reluctant to 
shorten down too much. Weston was on the foredeck almost con- 
stantly from 1600 to midnight, when everyone was finally convinced 
that the blow would last at least all night. 

Weston decided to go below about 0100, as he had stayed up 
through one watch off. Dressed in pants, shirt, knee boots and foul 
weather gear with a hooded parka, and with a safety belt on over 
his parka, he detached his lifeline, which he had been using con- 
stantly, and started down the hatch to the cabin. Scylla, under small 
jib, heavily reefed main, and mizzen, was heaving and jumping in 
wild, erratic fashion in short, steep and very confused seas, with 
winds estimated at about 50 knots. 

When he was hip-deep in the companionway, Scylla lurched vio- 
lently and fell away from under him, down and sideways. Weston 
was catapulted out of the hatch, slid over the trunk and down to 
the leeward rail, where a rush of water along the deck washed him 
underneath the lifeline and overboard. Dazed by being knocked 
down, he had no idea what had happened and felt nothing to grab 
or hold onto. The first realization that he had actually gone over- 
board came when he saw the transom disappearing away from him 
over a wave. Then the masthead light dipped out of sight, and the 
awful awareness came over him with full impact that he was alone 
in the water. 

"My first feeling was one of terrible sadness," Weston described it. 
"I gave myself up completely. I had no hope that they could get 
back to me in those conditions, and I just drifted without conscious 
effort, thinking of my family. I kept afloat almost automatically, 
but with no hope, and wondered how long it would take to drown 
and what it would be like." 

Meanwhile, on Scylla, although there was little hope that a rescue 
could take place under such conditions, all hands turned to the man 
overboard detail with despatch and efficiency. Each man had a sick, 
gone feeling that they would never find him, and yet they had to 
make every effort. The first move, and the key to the whole opera- 



240 Bitt Robinson 

tion, was made by Ray Kaufman, Snipe sailor from Port Washing- 
ton, Long Island, who was tending the mizzen from a position abaft 
the cockpit. He saw Weston go and immediately threw the water- 
light overboard. Unlike water-lights previously in use, the Guest 
light, developed for air-sea rescue use, shows a bright flashing light 
rather than a steady one. It is a strobe light that pulses with great 
brilliance. 

Chuck Wiley, of Oxford, Md., on the wheel, immediately made 
note of Scylla's heading so that she could be turned back on a recip- 
rocal bearing. She was jibed over as soon as possible, and the sails 
were dropped as an attempt was made to start the engine. Scylla 
has a diesel. The battery was dead, so the sails were hoisted again 
while Ulmer went to the heaving, crashing forepeak to get the spare 
battery out. It was buried under spare sails and bags and lines, but 
he finally wrestled it out. Meanwhile the navigator made a plot of 
Scylla's position for the moment Weston went over. 

After considerable wrestling and heaving, the new battery was 
hooked up to the engine and the motor kicked over. The sails came 
down again. Through it all, the light in the water, or at least the 
glow of it against the clouds, had remained visible from the boat for 
all but a moment or two. 

It was the light that changed Weston's situation. He was not 
aware of it for quite some time, estimated as perhaps 15 minutes. He 
had merely been keeping himself afloat, with no effort to do any- 
thing else, and no hope of rescue, until the glow of the light gradu- 
ally impinged on his consciousness. 

"It took a while for me to wake up to what it was/' Weston said, 
"and then my actions became almost subconscious. I don't remem- 
ber planning out any steps to save myself, or any orderly thinking 
on how I should act, but the glow of the light started me acting. I 
guess I realized that as long as it was there, there was some chance of 
my being found. It sort of beckoned me to it with the pulsing beat 
of its signal. 

"I don't remember stripping my clothes, and I couldn't tell you 
exactly how I did it. I know I'd have trouble enough getting out of 
a hooded parka in a country club pool, but I got out of it somehow." 

Trying to get to the light, Weston found that he could not make 
any progress on top of the water because of the size of the waves, 
and the roughly cresting tops, so he started swimming under water. 
He would take a breath and dive deeply, and the water was so clear 
that the glow of the light penetrated beneath the surface to guide 



Man Overboard 241 

him. He doesn't know how long it took, or how many dives, but he 
finally made it, approaching the light from underneath. He came 
up from below, with the glow shining eerily down to him, and 
grabbed the light by its weighted bottom. 

"Once I got to the light, I felt some hope for the first time/' 
Weston grinned. "I really felt they might see me, now that I knew 
how bright it was. I did some pretty irrational things, like picking 
the light out of the water and waving it over my head, and I never 
did realize that there was a light-ring attached to the light by a line. 
Don't ask me how I missed it. I just didn't know it was there. 

"When the boat showed up, I almost expected her and I knew I 
was all right." 

Under power and with sails down, Scylla worked her way back to 
the light, and there was unbelieving joy aboard when they sighted 
Weston's bobbing head. One pass missed but on the second time 
around they brought him alongside the lee rail and Ulmer grabbed 
him by his safety belt and manhandled him aboard, still clutching 
the light in his hand. When he landed on deck, the whole crew fell 
on him to make sure he didn't slide back overboard. 

Weston's physical reaction was to go into a profound sleep almost 
as soon as they got him below, and he felt few ill effects when he 
woke up the next day. He was, however, in a state of shock most of 
that day, weeping without warning on occasion, and unable to go 
on deck and face the waves. By mid-afternoon, after some more rest, 
he did come on deck to help with a sail change, and he was prac- 
tically back to normal on arrival in Bermuda. The emotional after- 
effects on the rest of the crew were almost as shattering as on Weston 
for the first few hours, but they kept sailing Scylla as hard as they 
could. She finished loth in Class E and fleet. (There is no penalty 
for emergency use of the engine.) 

Weston did not relish the thought of the return passage, and al- 
most took a plane home, but decided, on the "get on the horse after 
you're thrown" theory, to stay with the boat. 

"I'd go in the race again, sure," was his answer to the obvious 
query, "but I'm going to be even more careful how I handle my 
safety'line. Now we all keep it fastened until we get down the hatch 
and then have someone on deck detach it. 

"And I'd never go to sea with someone who didn't take the ad- 
vance care that Charlie Ulmer did. I can thank that for my being 
able to talk about it now. As I said, I'd never have thought anyone 
could have lived through the experience if I hadn't done it myself." 



ICEBOAT1NG 



WINTER'S WILDEST SPORT 
By Ralph Knight 

From The Saturday Evening Post 
Copyright, , 1960, Ralph Knight 



One sun-drenched yet ghastly cold day last winter the traffic in a 
New York City street paused at a traffic light and I said, "Now what 
in the world has that chap ahead of us got on top of his station 
wagon? It looks like an oversize canoe, but this isn't exactly canoe- 
ing weather." 

My companion, who, for some reason incomprehensible to me, 
likes to play around outdoors in cold weather, said, "You're looking 
at an iceboat fuselage, and those long things beside it are the runner 
plank and mast. Iceboats move very fast. Three, four times faster 
than the wind a hundred miles per hour when conditions are nice. 
Say, a friend of mine is a hard- water sailor. Want to get taken for a 
ride some blustery day?" My reply was vigorously in the negative, 
but eventually I surrendered. It was terrible. Yet in retrospect it 
does have a certain hair-raising charm. 

That ride can be described with more feeling if first we take a 
look at what iceboating is all about. A good place to begin is on one 
of the relatively small lakes that snuggle around the Great Lakes, 
where the speed demons of the Midwest forgather to see who's boss. 
The lakes of that weather-favored region maintain sailable ice are 
supposed to, anyway from before Christmastime clear into the 
mellowing sunshine of March. 

Early last February I arranged to attend, purely as a spectator, 
the Detroit Ice Yacht Club's Gar Wood Regatta, for it features the 
swiftest of all yachts, the Class E Skeeters. Gar Wood, that great 
boatman, set up a trophy in 1940 to stimulate interest in speed on 
ice, and he certainly succeeded. Unhappily the regatta had to be 
postponed two feet of snow. But a fortnight later the skippers' 

242 



Winter's Wildest Sport 243 

telephonic grapevine informed me that Mother Nature would have 
the ice on Lake St. Glair swept and polished for Saturday. On a map, 
St. Glair is a little bulge of water in the passageway between Lake 
Huron and Lake Erie, but in reality it is very big and very lovely 
as befits that region of mighty waters. 

In a rented car I tacked northward through Detroit's eight-lane 
traffic, and forty miles later came suddenly to a land's end. Beyond 
the shore stretched very cold-looking green-gray ice, joined at the 
horizon by the downward arch of very cold-looking pale-blue sky. 
The nearer ice teemed with walking, running, skating or falling- 
down spectators and dogs. There were scores of skippers lovingly en- 
gaged in the half-hour chore of assembling or taking apart their 
boats. Some of the miscellaneous items in view included men roar- 
ing around on air-propeller sleds and families with flaming portable 
braziers enjoying cookouts, for heaven's sake. Far away, maybe a 
mile, was a thin black smudge of spectators, and past them suddenly 
swept a dozen white sails, closely clustered, going fast. In all this 
company I seemed to be the only soul wearing a fedora hat, a busi- 
nessman's overcoat and the long pants customarily aifected on rail- 
road trains. 

I climbed down on the ice and set out briskly for the racecourse, 
but the wind, coming from starboard, blew my galoshes sidewise 
along the ice, and I fell down, all spread out flat like a crab. "Upsy- 
daisy," a nearby skipper said cheerfully. "You need creepers" 
pointing to cleatlike gadgets around his high boots. "You're not 
exactly dressed for this racket, brother. What's under your pants?" 

"Underpants. Garters," I said with dignity. 

'Til bet no drawers." He clucked and shook his head. "To be 
loose in this game, first you've got to be warm. Thermal stuff under- 
neath, good old Korean War stuff. Then you stay toasty and loose. 
It gets brisk out here, even if you don't feel cold at first." 

"I am feeling cold at first." 

"Well, you can always melt down in the inn up there. That's 
headquarters. You can fan the breeze with our wives if they haven't 
got the kids outdoors, freezing down their animal spirits." He was 
examining a pretty awful scar on the sleek blue hull of his boat. 
"Another fellow and I converged a little too dose in the last heat. 
Thought something might be busted, but I guess not. Last year in 
this race one of the guys broke a framing stay coining into the lower 
mark, and the boat turned over and pieces of it spattered every 



2 44 Ralph Knight 

which way nearly crowned the judges. Fellows behind him steered 
through the mess, which is pretty fair seamanship. Well, want to go 
out there? You can take the cockpit, and I'll sit out on the cross- 
plank and tell you what to do." 

I thanked him warmly. I said I was a writer and that as much as I 
would enjoy sailing his boat, it was my duty to stay here and inter- 
view skippers as they came and went. 

"O.K. See you at the dinner dance," he said. "Bottoms down!" 
And away sped his boat with a flashing of silvery runners. 

There was good talking that day with skippers, officials, boat- 
builders, sailmakers and just plain talkers who, like fans of any 
other sport, are fountains of information. Incidentally, most of my 
notes were written from memory while lying in bed that night under 
the thermal looseness of three blankets folded double. Out there on 
the ice my ball-point pen kept freezing and would revive only when 
hung in an inside pocket close to my heart. 

I did manage to record some iceboating lore. It seems that when 
the wind gets busy on an iceboat it is dealing with a more able and 
willing instrument than a water boat. An iceboat's runners enable 
it to move with little friction no matter what hell-bent speed is ac- 
quired. Also, those diligently sharpened iceboat blades prevent side- 
slip more efficiently than a keel does in water. Hence all the wind 
power generated against a sail is converted into motion and speed. 

When iceboats are sailing along with the wind they do not go 
faster than the wind is blowing, but when they are heading across 
the wind, that's something else. The wind humming against the sail 
tries to push the boat sidewise, but the runners won't stand for side- 
slipping, so the boat tries to get out of this jam by spurting forward. 
Skippers call this "the squeeze." Come to think of it, if you squeeze 
a wet piece of soap between your thumb and forefinger, it's apt to 
squirt at high speed across the bathroom. There's more to it than 
that in iceboating, but that roughly explains why iceboats can go 
scooting much faster than the wind. 

My notebook also emphasizes a meeting with a pretty, young lady 
who was putting a tiny DN-class boat to bed in its smartly tailored 
canvas nightclothes. One needs to know that a majority of iceboats 
are not classified according to size and design and type of rig, but 
simply according to maximum square-foot limit of sail Class A is 
350 square feet or under; B, 250; C, 175; D, 125; and E (the ultra- 
swift Skeeter) 75. But there are a few "one-design" classes. For in- 



Winter's Wildest Sport 245 

stance, the DN's, an invention of the Detroit News Craftsman's 
Shop, which were racing at St. Glair for the coveted Scripps DN 
Trophy, must be like this: mast sixteen feet, hull twelve, runner or 
crossplank eight and sail sixty square feet. The idea of the one- 
designers is to have skippers using exactly the same kind of boat, 
thus placing maximum emphasis on sailing skill. 

Mrs. Jane Pegel, the lady on the ice, and wife of genial Bob Pegel, 
nationally known sailmaker, said that in the United States there 
are some 450 DN boats alone and about 1500 boats of all classes. 
The sport focuses on about fifty ice-yacht clubs, a number with their 
own clubhouses. I asked her if she had had a good day. "Won both 
my heats," she said. 

"Pretty tough opposition, eh?" 

"Well, twenty-one men." Next day in the final heat she slew the 
twenty-one men again. In the summertime she is a nationally re- 
nowned soft-water sailor. 

When the waning sun was a golden half-sphere on the rim of St. 
Glair's ice, in rushed the last competitors of the racing fleet. But 
many of the skippers seemed restless, and away they went again, just 
aimlessly and happily darting this way and that like huge white 
birds. Although iceboating is essentially a racing sport, many of its 
addicts never race at all; for them the exhilaration of sailing far 
more swiftly than the wind is enough and they love it. 

A final vignette of Lake St. Glair: A boat skimmed shoreward, 
reaching long sunset shadows across the ice, and out of the cockpit 
laboriously crawled a man who, when his feet were on the ice, stood 
up on crutches. It was Al Sternkopf of Nashotah, Wisconsin, presi- 
dent of the International Skeeter Association. His leg had been 
broken when he had a mishap with his boat a month or so before. 
The accident happened, friends explained, while Al was trying to 
make an emergency stop to avoid hitting some spectators. He had 
dragged the limb overside and it got tangled up with the crosswise 
runner plank. No harm to the spectators. 

When I reached Sternkopf on the ice, he was four-legging on his 
crutches toward his car, kicking a detached runner ahead of him 
with his good foot. It saddened him to abstain from racing while his 
leg was in a cast. "I didn't do well today," he said, yet he seemed in 
excellent humor. "Usually I use my foot-steering apparatus and man 
the sail with both hands. Today one hand steer, one hand sail. 
Boy, it felt good to be tearing around again." 



246 Ralph Knight 

Using the squeeze to multiply the force of the wind produces some 
amazing speeds. For example, in 1908 Commodore Elisha Price of 
the Long Branch club in New Jersey, recorded an officially clocked 
speed of 140 miles an hour in his big yacht Clarel And yet there can 
be too much wind to suit iceboaters. Indeed, gusts up to forty-five 
or so are apt to make them resign for the day. A sailor told me that 
one afternoon when he was out testing the wind to see if a race 
should be postponed, "Some kind of overstrain hit the hull and the 
middle section of it just exploded, leaving two half-boats." So what 
happened? Oh, nothing much the stern, including the bewildered 
passenger in the cockpit, caught up with the bow and sort of hugged 
it until everything stopped. 

The basic running gear of an iceboat is deceptively simple, con- 
sisting of three "legs," or runners. One of them, a swiveling blade 
for steering, is attached to the main part of the boat, and the other 
two, which are stationary, are at the ends of the crosswise runner 
plank. Sometimes the skipper, or a whim of the win, hikes one of 
the craft's runners up in the air and lets her proceed on two runners. 
During nearly a century of American ice yachting the runner plank 
was always stationed under the bow, and the steering runner was 
back under the stern, where everybody assumed a ship's rudder 
should be. Designs have changed, but even today the stern steering 
blade remains the best way to control the very big boats, those 
which have a two-man crew a sail handler and a helmsman. A dis- 
tressing trait of the stern steerer is that sometimes the helm gets to 
vibrating so violently that the helmsman can't make it behave, 
whereupon the boat goes into a pigeon-wing (spin) and whirls like 
a magnificent top. A pigeon-wing veteran says, "You can get dizzy, 
and if you land upside down on the ice, you can get dizzier." 

Early in the 1930'$ came the revolution that suddenly produced 
smaller, cheaper, more efficient boats, a kind of Model T triumph. 
A few Midwestern pioneers, notably Starke Meyer and Walter 
Beauvais, began playing around with the idea of moving the steer- 
ing runner up to the bow and the crosswise runner plank back un- 
der the stern; they eliminated the forward sail, cut the hull length 
drastically, shortened the mast considerably, and fashioned an en- 
closed cockpit to keep the sailors inside the boat, where they belong. 
These svelte craft, of which Chicago's Ted Mead originally was the 
master builder, could "take" more wind without going haywire, and 
they maneuvered like a dream. They were called Class E Skeeters, 



Winter's Wildest Sport 24^ 

and they soon began beating the whey out of the big, proud stern 
steerers, horrifying the traditionalists. In the 1960 Northwestern 
free-for-all championship on Lake Winnebago, Bill Perrigo's Skeeter 
which he calls Thunderjet, not only cleaned up on everybody, but 
beat the big Class A champion by the distressing distance of one lap. 

The Skeeter has added to its speed with a couple of latter-day 
fillips. One was the switch to tough Dacron sails which lather up 
speed like anything. The other was the use of a springboard to con- 
nect the front runner to the boat; this acts as a stabilizer for the 
steersman in his madder moments. Bow-steering boats don't spin, 
praises be, but in case one of them capsizes, the runner plank under 
the skipper hoists him maybe eight feet into the air, from where a 
descent onto the ice is regrettable especially if the mast breaks and 
comes down on top of him. 

A boat manufacturer explained all this to me, and I went on to 
ask him how much he would charge me for a boat. He said about 
f 2000 for a Skeeter and $500 for a smaller DN. With us was a chap 
who had designed and built several boats for himself in his garage, 
and he said he did it for maybe half that cost. The two of them got 
into a hassle about whether or not the professionals were charging 
too much, so I went away from there, found a skipper who was 
alone and asked him how I could get started at iceboating in case 
the urge should overwhelm me. He said to buy a secondhand boat, 
play with it for two seasons, and then I would know whether to buy 
a new boat or build my own dream vessel. 

Iceboaters have much more trouble with the weather than most 
other people have. They want ice, and they don't want snow. When 
a blizzard comes, they want an unseasonable thaw or a warm rain to 
melt the snow fast, but not melt the ice. Because they have to motor 
around to where the ice is sailable, theirs is a weekend sport; so they 
don't want thaws on Saturdays and freeze-ups on Mondays. They 
want wind, but not big wind, and they certainly decry "no wind." 
Last winter some Easterners drove out to a regatta near Chicago, 
that windy city; for two days not a breath of air blew, and every- 
body went home. A few seasons ago there was a quaint regatta at 
Lake Geneva. The racers got hopelessly lost in a sudden and ob- 
literating snowstorm, some of them winding up on unfamiliar 
shores and returning to headquarters by taxicab. 

The weather was the reason I found Joe Irwin depressed when I 
called on him last February. He is the ex-commodore of the famous 



248 Ralph Knight 

old North Shrewsbury Yacht Club at Red Bank, New Jersey. From 
a picture window we looked out at a soundlike expanse of the 
Navesink River close to the ocean, out across rippling blue-and- 
silver water. Another Red Banker said later, "The ice that river has 
produced all winter wouldn't cool a Martini." 

Joe Irwin, like his renowned father, the late Commodore Charles 
P. Irwin, loves to race the giant old Hudson River-type Class A's 
which require ten men to carry them. He owns or has controlling 
syndicate interest in three of them. He reminisced about a race in 
which a Class A boat hit a patch of thin Navesink ice and disap- 
peared in a geyser of spray, "Some part of a boat usually stays above 
water. We snaked one member of the crew off it with a rope. But 
the other fellow was floundering around, all neatly rolled up in the 
big sail. Well, we just had to unroll him fast." He added dismally, 
"Nobody will go through ice here this winter." And yet oneway in 
March there came an excited phone call from Red Bank: "Ice on 
the Navesink! The small boats will race. Too thin for the big boats, 
but one guy insists he's going out anyway." So Post photographer 
Larry Keighley made a trip over to the Navesink and took a picture 
of the big boat in action. Just as he finished, up went a water geyser 
and down went the boat. Joe Irwin arrived rapidly with a rope. 

Apparently some restive character in Holland dreamed up the 
first iceboat, because around 1750 the Dutch were doing something 
reckless called sleigh sailing. Dutch settlers brought the idea to the 
Hudson River, and by 1870 the Roosevelt family and other moneyed 
people were evolving craft so huge, and so close to unmanageable, 
that many owners considered it prudent to linger on land and ob- 
serve what happened to their professional crews. 

The most titanic of these iceliners, the Icicle, now reposes in the 
Roosevelt Museum in Hyde Park. It won the Challenge Pennant of 
America again and again. John E. Roosevelt F.D.R/s uncle had 
this leviathan built out of butternut wood from his own estate. Like 
every true iceboater he was always rebuilding it this way and that, 
and at one time it was nearly sixty-nine feet long and carried 1070 
square feet of sail! Let's not try to decide if today's supreme boat, 
the Skeeter with seventy-five square feet of sail, could have beaten 
the Icicle in a free-for-all One thing is certain: Commodore Roose- 
velt couldn't have transported his boat on one of today's automo- 
biles he used a railroad flatcar. Which brings to mind that the 
Hudson River lads took pleasure in racing the riverside express 



Winter's Wildest Sport 249 

trains and leaving them astern. Recently a skipper gravely told me 
about one of these old iceboats' being involved in a train wreck: it 
got a little out of hand and knocked the locomotive off the track. 
The raconteur was unable to remember the name of the book in 
which he believed he read this. 

Gradually the iceliners of yore gave way to relatively smaller 
boats, more like the stern steerers of today. And when, around the 
turn of this century, unsentimental commercialists began cracking 
up the Hudson's ice for winter navigation, that finished the rich- 
man's-sport phase of iceboating. A pleasant postscript about the 
Hudson comes from John Childs, secretary-treasurer of the Eastern 
Ice Yacht Association and a busy member of the Westchester (New 
York) Ice Sailing Club. He reports that Richard Aldrich of Red 
Hook, up the Hudson, is trying to organize a fleet of big boats which, 
by steering clear of channel water, will bring flashing sails back to 
the old river again. Childs lives in New Rochelle, New York, and 
has a special interest in the Aldrich project. Someone found stowed 
away the essential parts of one of the Hudson's greatest boats, the 
Jack Frost (720 square feet of sail), and Childs is going to rebuild 
her at his home. What with other things to do, he figures it will take 
about five years. 

When today's eastern yachtsmen occasionally take the long haul 
out to the Midwest regattas, they often get shellacked. Western speed 
merchants reason that periodic plagues of bad weather in the East 
have a dulling effect on racing enthusiasm and pioneering in design. 
Maybe. Yet for enthusiasm, ice boating has never known anything 
like the wild-and-woolly rivalry which for generations has kept New 
Jersey's ancient Long Branch and Red Bank clubs bashing away at 
each other in annual challenges strong men among the losers feel 
like crying. These fellows still love the grand, big Hudson-type 
boats. In Red Bank's venerable clubhouse are stored leviathans of 
yesteryear and this year, and upstairs in the monthly meeting room 
the boys sit around a pot-bellied stove, maybe with chowder steam- 
ing on it, while faded photos of great sailors and great boats, and 
fraying pennants of sweet victories, seem to smile down on them. 

As for dreaming up new designs, Easterners began to feel that a 
double-duty boat would be nice, a Skeeter-type boat in which one 
could go like mad in a race or in which he could take a leisurely 
afternoon cruise with his wife. So they invented the Yankee class, 
with a cockpit that accommodates two medium-size persons, side by 



Ralph Knight 

side. It is a fine teaching boat, a boon to iceboat widows, and some- 
thing for young lovers to have in mind they can sail for miles 
down a lake beneath a great pale moon and run out of wind. 

It came to pass in Philadelphia one day last January that there 
was a ferocious rainstorm, featuring lightning bolts and thunder 
blasts, just as in July. I phoned Homer Sieder, Westfield, New Jersey, 
president of the Yankee Iceboat Association, to find out whether or 
not the championship regatta on Lake Hopatcong in northern New 
Jersey was still scheduled for the weekend. Homer has been Eastern 
Open champion four times, and he has the depressing tendency to 
win his own Yankee championships while the rest of the fleet is way 
out yonder. Considering Homer's velocity and the fact that he had 
offered to take me for a ride at Hopatcong, I hoped he would call 
the race off. He said to phone again Friday night. It was raining 
warmly then, so he said to call Saturday morning at six. I did, and 
at that repugnant hour he reported, "The ice hasn't gone out. 
There's water all over it, but that makes ice faster. We go." 

When I got out of my car at Lake Hopatcong the Yankee boats 
were tuning up at the starting mark, far, far from the shore, raging 
around on sheets of water. There was some open water around the 
edge of the mooring bay, and apparently the thing to do was to walk 
out on the mud hummocks, step on the rim of the ice and see if it 
broke. A chap who was fixing his boat said cordially, "Watch out 
for the little rotty-looking spots about the size for your leg to go 
through. We've got at least the minimum three inches of ice, and 
four is perfectly safe. Water supports ice sort of hydraulic princi- 
ple but a pocket of air that will compress and blooey." For a 
friendly man he was singularly alarming. 

As I walked out on the ice watching for those little rotty spots 
I noticed that sometimes earlier the ice had broken up into little 
white cakes, and then the water had refrozen darkly between the 
blocks. At the mouth of the bay it was necessary to detour around 
an expanse of open water; this, a man said, was caused by a current, 
but he did not know if the expanse was getting bigger. Outside the 
bay there was an abominable cold wind which had to be leaned 
against, and the temperature fell acutely. At the starting mark the 
most impressive sight was a contented-looking spectator with a very 
bald head; he was bundled to his ears in a greatcoat, but, he had no 
hat! No wonder a man is bald, treating his head like that. I stood 
on that ice for three hours and forty minutes, and every time a chill 
set in I looked at that head and felt better. 



Winter's Wildest Sport 251 

So the fleet captain with the loud-speaker lined up the boats and 
signaled the start. The skippers gave their craft mighty shoves, 
leaped into the cockpits, and away leaped the ice yachts. At first 
they seemed dangerously bunched, and then they came unbundled, 
tacking this way and that, and by and by they were little white flecks 
straining toward a mark so far away I could not see it. Spectators 
exclaimed, "There, Joe has a puff!" or "Look at old Bill ride that 
puff!" Puffs are swift streams of air gusting through slower or stand- 
still air. 

When the fleet was still far away, out of nowhere swept a boat, 
swished around the finish mark, and went barreling off down the 
lake again. 

"What's that?" I asked the man with the checkered flag. 

"Oh, that's Homer," he said. "Second lap." 

It seems that it is routine for Homer to run around in that lonely 
way while the crowd grows frenzied about who is second and third. 
What makes a sailor as good as that, anyway? There are things you 
have to know in the technical, bookish way, says Sieder, but above 
that you have to keep feeling what is the right thing to do. He 
makes it very simple: "You sail by the seat of your pants." 

There came a moment when sailor Sieder said to me, "Well, hop 
in. Trouble is, with the wind dying down, I'm afraid I can't get her 
puffing." I thought, Is that bad? The skipper adjusted his goggles, 
and I adjusted my fedora and inserted my pants and overcoat into 
the hole in the hull. Sieder gave the boat a galloping shove and 
leaped in, and before a person could say "Help!" the ice was mov- 
ing backward at a gruesome speed and so was a barrage of ice shav- 
ings from the front runner. 

Just as I was becoming used to the unfortunate situation, dead 
ahead of us and horribly near arose the shore line, heavily timbered 
and tilting up into a graceful hill. Obviously we must either hike 
up on two runners and careen out of there or proceed up the hill 
and take off in the air like a ski jumper. But our three runners 
remained firmly on the ice three down, someone explained later, 
is smarter, faster sailing than two. What Sieder did was turn around 
on a dime or at most a quarter. Our low center of gravity and 
those clinging blades kept us topside up, and the cockpit kept my 
body from going on up the hill. Some seconds later I was satisfied 
to be back at the starting point, but the skipper turned around and 
did it all over again. When we stopped, he said, "You get out first," 
which I was already doing. 



252 Ralph Knight 

Suddenly I felt wonderful. And this was not because I had sur- 
vived the ride, but because I had experienced it. The tension and 
dread and just plain fear disappeared in a fountaining puff of ex- 
hilaration. Ice sailing is a releasing, freeing, conquering sport; when 
birds gather in the evening sky and go whirling and swirling and 
racing along a sundown wind, they must be having that same kind 
of fun. I would buy an iceboat if I liked to go outdoors in winter. 



BOWLING 



THE METHUSELAH OF BOWLING 

By Bob Cole 
From The Winston-Salem (N. C.) Journal-Sentinel 



Much of the time he sits hunched forward in a straight-back chair, 
silent except for spasmodic wheezing . . . chain-smoking , . . staring 
through round, gold-rimmed glasses . . . his large- veined hand strok- 
ing the gray combed-back hair and the gray stubble that frame his 
eroded face. . . . 

This is Sarge Easter, the Methuselah of bowling, looking down 
the alley at a 7-10 split of hourglasses. 

And he doesn't have many trick shots left at 69. Or 72, or 79, 
whatever his age. 

He has trouble walking through the modest four-room house at 
Walkertown, or driving 10 miles to Walnut Cove for drugs to kill 
the pain and help clear the lungs. 

Emphysema has cost him his optimism, ability to exhale easily, 
40 pounds of weight and his consuming love-vocation. 

It's been almost a year since he last bowled. He's lost most of his 
contact with the game, although the other day he got an hour-long 
phone call at the rate of $1.10 for 3 minutes from a touring team 
that stopped in Greenville, S. C. 

Then he got a letter from a promoter asking him to bowl in a 
proposed national bowling league. But Sarge has a tough time 
putting on his bowling shirt every morning much less rolling a 
1 6-pound ball 60 feet with the accuracy he once achieved. 

So he just sits and thinks . . . back. The memory is not clear. Too 
many times the years have been shuffled to please the army, the 
sportswriters. 

Too many strikes, too many miles . . . sometimes it's a blur of 
khaki, of black ball exploding white pins, of currency green passing 
over his palm. 

The beginning of his odyssey is clear, violent. A moonshiner's 

253 



254 

shotgun blast killed his father, Dunkard minister Joseph Anderson 
Easter, and sent his family from its home near Cana, Carroll County, 
Virginia, to a small tobacco farm near Walnut Cove. 

It was 1904. Sarge was 12 years old, one of seven children his 
widowed mother somehow raised to comfort,. 

His four brothers and two sisters called him "Ed," from the initials 
of his given name, Ebber Darnell. His was almost the only non- 
Biblical name among a Simon Peter, Jonah, Keziah, etc. 

At 14, nose pressed to a grimy glass front on Liberty Street, Ed 
saw his first bowling alley. Love at first sight wasn't cynical in 1906. 

He went home, successfully pleaded for a small patch of tobacco, 
and cultivated bowling money. At 10 cents a line (it's 50 cents now) 
Ed was in heaven from noon until six o'clock. 

Five years and a falsehood passed before he bowled again. Tired 
of farm life, 1 8-year-old Ed connived with a Roanoke, Va., Army 
recruiter to circumvent the parental consent requirement. 

"You're husky enough," the recruiter told the 5-foot-8, i8o-pound 
stump of a youth. The Army agreed, and made Ed a physical train- 
ing instructor. 

When the U. S. entered World War I, Ed was sent to Canada to 
learn bayonet tactics, then to California to relay the lethal lessons to 
Europe-bound infantrymen. 

During those first 10 years of service, Ed bowled nearly every 
night he wasn't on guard duty. He also discovered his other athletic 
abilities. 

Trading his khaki for wool flannel on a three-month furlough in 
1920, he pitched for Spokane of the Class A Pacific International 
League, 

He was also a fair trackman, in the quarter mile and broad and 
high jumps. Later, he became a left-handed golfer because he used 
left-handed clubs the first time he played, although he is right- 
handed. 

After his third enlistment period ended in 1921, he pitched and 
switch-hit his summers away for two years, in the minor leagues, 
several more in semi-pro baseball. 

He won a game in Winston-Salem for Raleigh in 1923, but lost it 
when the local team protested that he was one of too many veterans 
on Raleigh's roster. 

He pitched against Satchel Paige in spring training for Spokane, 
little dreaming he would join the Negro star in sports antiquity. 



The Methuselah of Bowling 255 

After pitching two loinning, i-o losses in a doubleheader, he 
turned down a shot with the Philadelphia Athletics in 1921. 

Maybe he later regretted the decision. He drifted around the 
country in the 'so's, shucking corn and catching rivets and bowling 
for industrial teams in the Midwest, mining coal in West Virginia, 
living everywhere by wit and daring as a bachelor can. 

Broke in West Virginia, he rented a theatre and in one day pro- 
moted a "fiddler's convention" that cleared over $1,000. 

A pool shark who'd bite for a fin, he would stroll into an em- 
porium, enter a game with no financial backing, run the table. 

"But what if you ever lost, Ed?" he was asked. 

"I'd get a cue stick cracked over my head," he said with a shrug. 
"But I couldn't lose. There was money on the line." 

The bowling world later would learn this, but Sarge foresaw no 
such dream-come-true. With a penchant for a pension and Army 
security, he looked for a recruiter who would overlook the fact he 
was 38 and even older by Army records. 

He found one, and was "in" again in 1930, on his way to fame 
and self -fulfillment. The route was indirect, to Hawaii and back to 
Chicago. 

The return trip was to his first American Bowling Congress 
tournament in 19,38, and it temporarily cost him his staff sergeant's 
rank. 

His enlistment period had nearly ended when the tournament 
came up, and he could keep his sergeant's rating if he re-enlisted 
immediately. When Ed asked for a furlough to bowl, his command- 
ing officer told him, "Take a leave or a promotion." 

The c. o. knew Ed's dependence upon the Army, but not his love 
of bowling. Ed was at least 46, with no skills, no money. He went 
bowling. 

Twenty-six days later, he was back in khaki, a buck private. He 
was sent to the University of Wisconsin (at Madison) as an ROTC 
rifle instructor. 

Taking an apartment next to Schwoegler's (sh-waig-ler's) Lanes, 
he hung around the alleys like a hand towel on a ball rack. When 
not on the firing line where he says he hit 80 straight bullseyes 
from 50 feet he was on the foul line. 

The Schwoeglers "took a liking to the old (at least 47) gent," put 
him on one of their league teams, and . . . 

"When he came here in '39, all he had was a straight ball," Mel 



256 Bob Cole 

Schwoegler recalled. "No science. Worse, he had a pronounced 
backup (his delivery faded from left to right instead of right to left 
as a hook does). 

"So Dad (the late Tony) taught him a hook, and Connie (Mel's 
brother, onetime ABC Bowler of the Year) worked a lot with him. 

"He and Connie experimented with different grips., after studying 
slow-motion movies of ball-and-pin action. 

"Sarge developed his 'Easter grip/ and it was popular while he 
was. 

"Funny thing about Sarge. He was always coughing. We would 
draw straws to see who would room with him on trips/' 

This was emphysema (em-fuh-seem-uh) in its early stages. As the 
disease progresses, it turns the lung muscles to flab, making exhala- 
tion difficult and causing the lungs to remain nearly full of stale 
air air from which the body has assimiliated most of the oxygen. 

But Sarge had no time for sickness. He had 33 years of duffer 
bowling to make up. On weekend passes he sped around the Mid- 
west tournament circuit and back to Madison for a nap before 
reporting to the university at 8 a.m. Monday. 

He won a few tournaments and usually finished in the money, but 
most amazing was his match game success especially at Schwoeg- 
ler's. Driven by a hungry ego and betting money, and fortified by 
tremendous stamina, he could bowl challenge matches all night. 

As a gray-haired prodigy, he quickly gained a national reputation. 
After his Army manipulations, his age was as much a mystery as 
Jack Benny's. 

The ABC Who's Who lists his birthday as Nov. 20, 1883, cites 
him as its oldest champion (for his membership on its 1950 team 
champion). But another ABC record says he was 69 in 1953, which 
would make his year of birth 1884. 

Sarge says his birthday is March 8, 1889. The family Bible kept 
by his sister, Mrs. R. W. Sands of Walnut Cove, says he was born 
March 8, 1892. 

However inconsistent his age, these things are certain: He was 
at least 50 before he won a major tournament, at least 65 when he 
left the pro circuit. Popular stories make that age span 60 to 75. 

In 1946, Sarge was retired from the Army as a staff sergeant after 
26 years of service. The next 1 1 years he spent bowling in the Mid- 
west and California, or driving cross-country. 

His most memorable trip was a two-day tear from Long Beach, 



The Methuselah of Bowling 257 

Calif., to Detroit. Scheduled to bowl with the midnight shift in a 
Long Beach tournament, Sarge had planned to skip a tournament 
beginning two days later in Detroit. 

But the Detroit sponsor called that night: "Sarge, the mayor and 
governor are going to be here. It's opening night for my alley. You 
got to come!" 

Sarge came, leaving Long Beach at 2:30 a.m. Wednesday after 
winning that tournament, arriving in Detroit at 8 p.m. Thursday 
just in time for opening ceremonies. 

The governor presented him the check he won in Long Beach. 
"Sarge, you made it in 40 hours! You must have averaged 70 miles 
an hour," the proprietor said, beaming. 

Well, not quite, but even 70 would have been slow for Sarge. 
His record was somewhere over 120 mph or so the Tennessee state 
police told him when they finally caught him at their road block. 
That little spin cost him only $16.50; he was as smooth a talker as 
bowler. 

Sarge burned up four Chryslers. He still has the one he bought 
i n jg^g the only checks coming in now are from the government. 

The first Chrysler came from 120 crisp f 100 bills paid Mm by a 
wealthy Detroiter who bit off more than he could bowl in challeng- 
ing Sarge. 

"Want to get even?" Sarge asked, counting his money. 

"Yeah." 

"Then bet on me from now on, not against me." 

Less than a year later, the wiser but flatter Detroiter was in a bar 
watching television. Sarge and his Detroit Pepsi-Cola team were in 
the finals of the 1950 ABC team championships. 

Sarge was anchor man. If he bowled strikes in the last two frames 
and one in the extra frame, his team would win the title by one pin. 

"Hundred says he can do it," the Detroiter said to the man on 
the next stool. 

"You're crazy, but I'll take you." 

The Detroiter wasn't crazy. 

Sarge took a bet like a dare, especially when the odds were against 
him, as when: 

He lost his regular partner on the last day of a 1953 national 
doubles tournament in St. Louis. So he teamed with a so-so shooter, 
and they shot a three-game scare of 1,483, best of the year. He struck 
out on the last frame and the team won the tournament by a pin. 



Although just recovering from a siege of influenza and ptomaine 

poisoning at the 1953 St. Louis All-Star tournament, he agreed to 
bowl with his team until a substitute arrived. 

The sub didn't arrive until the sixth frame. Sarge had six strikes 
and said, "I'll bowl until I miss a strike." He stopped after a perfect 
game which, according to ABC records that list him as 69 in 1953, 
made him one of the two oldest men ever to bowl a 300 game in 
sanctioned league play. He was at least 61. 

Sarge was through as a pro bowler in 1957. He had spent three 
seasons in Detroit, one in St. Louis, most of the rest in Burbank, 

Calif. 

A Burbank proprietor gave Sarge a special chair near the door 
of his alley, away from the hum and splatter of the bowling area. 
When not sitting, he was betting at Santa Anita race track. His 
favorite wager: a three-horse round-robin parlay. 

Last January Sarge left his bachelor brother and the Burbank 
motel room they shared, and moved here to live with his widower 
brother Simon at Walkertown. 

He took his bowling equipment to a local alley, told the pro- 
prietor he hoped to "get in a few more games before I go/' 

He did, dropping by occasionally for trick bowling exhibitions, 
such as bowling two balls simultaneously, so that they cross midway 
down the alley and roll on to knock over the No. 7 and No. 10 pins 
which are set in the far corners of the alley. 

But the emphysema worsened. And after a life of freedom and 
good health, Sarge became depressed when the disease became 
manifest. For the first time in his life, he entered a hospital with 
reluctance for two weeks. 

Doctors told him he would have to be confined; no one could 
care for his internal hemorrhaging at home. At first, he seemed to 
take confinement as an admission of defeat, but adjusted so well he 
had to be persuaded to leave. 

Soon after he was out, brother Simon's son graduated from high 
school, and it appeared the boy might not be around home too long. 
Simon told Sarge: 

"Us two old men can't stay here and try to care for each other. 
We're both weak. You're under sedative at night. We're going to 
have to move." 

So last week Sarge staggered out to his car with his topcoat and 
winter suit. 



The Methuselah of Bowling 259 

"Don't know whether he's going to take 'em to the cleaners or try 
to drive to Denver (Colorado)," Simon said. "Says he wants to enter 
the veterans hospital out there. 

"He ain't got no business trying to drive to Denver, but I won't 
try to stop him. We're a hard-headed family, and he won't listen to 
nobody." 

The money from his winnings was big ("I've had as many as 18 
checks for him when he'd come home," Simon recalled), but his 
traveling expenses were high. There apparently is not much left. 

But Sarge still has his bowling ball, shoes and bag, and one more 
goal: to make the ABC Hall of Fame, which he barely missed last 
winter. 

"I should make it next year," he said. "But the way I feel now, 
I don't know if I'll be around to celebrate." 



HUNTING 



THE MULE DEER 
By Jack O'Connor 

From Outdoor Life 
Copyright, , 1960, Outdoor Life 



Whenever anyone assures me that all mule deer are morons, I 
think of the first really big buck I ever shot. I knew of a chain of 
hills where early in the season I had always seen a good many does, 
fawns, and young bucks. One year I turned down easy shots at two 
or three perfectly legal males, knowing that late in the season a big 
fellow would probably show up to boot out the small bucks and 
take over the harem. 

So it came about that one afternoon when the Arizona season had 
only a couple of days to go, and when every morning white frost 
glinted on the grass and the brooks up in the mountains were frozen 
at the edges, I hit my little chain of hills again. By taking a game 
trail up the side of a wide canyon I had an easy walk to the top. 
When I got there I planned to work along the ridge and hunt the 
points and the heads of the draws. 

I had hardly started up the trail when I saw a movement in the 
buckbrush and junipers about 400 yards ahead of me and toward 
the top of the ridge. It was a doe. Then I saw more shadowy gray 
forms, and I could tell that about a dozen deer were going over the 
top. Then a larger form detached itself from the group and sneaked 
off to the left. Even at a quarter of a mile or so I could see a big 
gray body and heavy-many-pointed antlers. Here was the buck I 
had been looking for, the old boy himself. He had collected his 
harem and chased the young bucks out, but now that danger threat- 
ened he was abandoning the ladies and looking after his own 
sleek hide. 

I felt that he'd cut over the ridge into the head of the next draw. 
So the moment he was out of sight, I ran over the ridge that sepa- 

260 



The Mule Deer 261 

rated the two canyons and stopped in a spot that gave me a good 
look at the far side. I hadn't got my wind back when I heard a stone 
roll, and in a moment I saw him slipping through the scrubby 
junipers and pinons with his head up and his great antlers laid 
back so they would get through the brush easier. If he kept on com- 
ing he would go by me on the opposite side of the draw, so I 
switched off the safety of my Springfield and waited. 

It was the first time I'd ever been dose to a really big trophy buck, 
and 111 never forget the sight he presented the blocky, dark-gray 
body, the heavy brown antlers with the many points polished sharp 
and bright, the massive neck swelled from the rut, the maniacal 
look of lust and excitement in his eyes. I had the wind on him and 
I could smell the oily, rancid odor of the rutting mule deer, a smell 
at once fascinating and repellent, heavy, musky, greasy. He saw the 
movement when I lifted the rifle to my shoulder, and stopped less 
than 50 yards away. Winded, and shaking with excitement though 
I was, I couldn't very well miss him. There was nothing wrong with 
that buck's brains. In the grip of the strongest of instincts, he was 
yet smart enough and cool-headed enough to leave his does as decoys 
and try to slip out to one side and around the danger. 

The mule deer is no boob, but I must admit that he generally 
isn't as smart as his cousin the whitetail, or as hard to get. Part of 
this comes from the fact that he is more of an open-country animal 
and hence is easier to see and hunt. But part of it also comes from 
the fact that he does not lie as close, that he takes longer to make 
up his mind, and that he often is addicted to the fatal habit of 
stopping for one last look before he gets out of sight. 

A whitetail will conceal himself in a patch of brush hardly big 
enough to hide a pheasant. If he thinks he can't sneak off unseen, 
hell sit tight with hunters all around him. When he thinks he has 
to move, he's off like a rocketing grouse and he doesn't stop for a 
backward look. The mule deer, on the other hand, has a tendency 
to move off and reveal himself in the face of danger, to jitter 
around, unable to decide which way to run, and to stop for one 
good look. But old trophy bucks get cautious. They select their beds 
with care, and get almost as good as the whitetail is at slipping away 
from the hunter. 

A very smart and close-lying buck mule deer 111 never forget was 
one I shot in northern Arizona in 1934. I had made a long trip to 
hunt an area I knew well, and I was after a trophy head. I turned 



262 Jack O'Connor 

down several small bucks and a couple o good average ones with 
four points to a side. About 2 p.m. of my last day I stopped on the 
brink of a canyon to eat a sandwich. I was still without a deer and 
was kicking myself for passing up the two four-pointers. Below me 
I could see the trail that led to camp about five miles away. I was 
going to have to start back, pack up, and leave empty-handed. 

After I finished my sandwich, I drank from my canteen, smoked 
a cigarette, and started to lead my horse down the side of the 
canyon which was too steep and rocky to ride down safely. I hadn't 
gone more than 30 yards when a tremendous buck got up from 
beneath a juniper below me about 300 yards away and took off. On 
my second or third shot he fell head over heels and lay in the 
scrubby sage. When I got to him I found he needed another shot. 
The bullet that dumped him had passed through the knee joint of 
his left front leg. He must have had most of his weight on this, leg 
when it was struck, and the fall must have stunned him. He had seven 
points on one side, six on the other, and a spread of 341/2 inches. 
A right fair buck. All the time he'd been lying there getting more 
and more nervous, and when I started toward him he must have 
thought he'd been seen. If I'd gone the other way, I'm sure I would 
never have known he was there. All mule deer aren't dumb. 

The fact that they have adapted themselves to great varieties of 
climate and terrain also shows they have their share of brains. They 
are found from the Dakotas to the crest of the Coast Ranges, from 
the hot subtropical deserts of Sonora, Mexico, to the subarctic 
tundras of northern British Columbia. I have seen mule deer in 
country rough enough for mountain sheep and have, in fact, seen 
bighorns and deer feeding on the same hillside. I have likewise seen 
them in the cactus and brush on the level deserts of northern 
Mexico. When I was hunting antelope some years ago around 
Gillette, Wyoming, there were many mule deer in the brushy 
coulees where little streams wandered through the antelope plains. 
When they were frightened they'd take right off across the sage- 
brush flats with the antelope. 

In most areas mule deer have increased enormously in the past 
20 or 30 years, so much so that they have starved on their winter 
range. They have invaded the suburbs in many Western cities, par- 
ticularly in the winter when feed is scarce. In the north they have 
followed the Alaska Highway up into southern Yukon, where they 
have never been known before. So plentiful have the mule deer 



The Mule Deer 263 

become in some states that in certain areas hunters can legally take 
two, and even three, deer. 

The mule deer got his Latin name of hemionus from his large 
ears, hemionus being the Latin word for mule. In general, the 
muley is a different breed of cat from his whitetail cousin, Instead 
of having the whitetail's large, floppy tail generally body-colored 
on top and snow-white beneath the mule deer has a small, thinly 
haired tail of dingy white with a black tip. He does not throw it up 
when frightened, as the whitetail does. He always keeps it hanging 
down. The tail of the muley's near relative, the Columbian black- 
tail, is about halfway in size between the small one of the mule deer 
and the large one flaunted by the whitetail. It is black on top, and 
instead of tossing it up when frightened, as the whitetail does, he 
carries it horizontal In many ways the blacktail looks like a com- 
promise between the mule deer and the whitetail. It's an odd fact 
that in areas where both mule deer and whitetails range, one occa- 
sonally comes across bucks that look like Pacific Coast blacktails. 
They are crosses between whitetails and mule deer. I have never 
shot one, but I have seen several that were taken in southern 
Arizona and northern Sonora. 

The mule deer has a strongly marked face with a dark V on the 
forehead and a light muzzle, as compared with the whitetail's fairly 
uniformly dark face. All the points of the whitetail's antlers come 
off of one main beam, but the antlers of the mule deer are evenly 
branched. The brow tine of the whitetail's antlers is always con- 
spicuous and large, but that of the mule deer is smaller and some- 
times absent altogether. Pacific Coast blacktail antlers look like 
those of mule deer, both differ so much from those of the whitetail 
that it is almost impossible to confuse them. In the West the brow 
tine is not counted, and only the points on one antler are referred 
to. A four-pointer Western count would be a lo-pointer in the East. 

An odd thing about the facial markings of mule deer that I have 
never seen referred to in print is that the latitude from which the 
deer comes can pretty well be told by the black line around the 
lower jaw. In the northern portion of the range in Alberta and 
British Columbia, the black line goes completely around. Somewhat 
farther south the line is divided in the middle, and at the lower 
end of the range in the deserts of southern Arizona and northern 
Mexico the line has degenerated into* two dark spots on either side 
of the lower jaw. 



264 Jack O'Connor 

In favored localities mule deer grow tremendous antlers, and a 
fine muley head is one of the most beautiful of all North American 
trophies. These big heads are found wherever there is plenty of 
lime in the food and water. Colorado has produced many great 
heads, and so have the limestone ranges of Alberta. Many spectacu- 
lar ones have come out of Arizona's Kaibab National Forest north 
of the Grand Canyon. I have not hunted there for many years, but 
I believe 1 have seen a higher proportion of exceptional heads there 
than anywhere else. I once measured a Kaibab head with a spread 
of 471^ inches and about 20 points to the side. Another region of 
fine heads that is little known is in Sonora south of the town of 
Altar, and I have seen some beauties from southern Idaho. In the 
latest edition of Records of North American Big Game, the world 
record typical mule deer head came from Arizona's Kaibab. 

On average the mule deer is the largest of American deer, but 
many tales told of their size are on the giddy side. For the past 40 
years I have been following up rumors of bucks that are supposed 
to have field dressed at 400 pounds and more, but I have yet to find 
an authentic instance of one. Apparently the very largest mule deer 
and the heaviest northern whitetail from Maine and Michigan are 
about the same size, with dressed weight running something over 
300 pounds and live weight at close to 400. 

For many years all deer brought into the hunting camps of 
Arizona's Kaibab were weighed, and in years of good forage the 
heaviest bucks would weigh something over 300 pounds hog dressed. 
The largest bucks I have authentic weights on all go about like that, 
with records running from 300 to 335 pounds. I have heard of many 
bucks that weighed more, but when I investigated I found the 
weight was estimated. I have shot two bucks that went 175 and 176 
pounds in the quarters (the four quarters weighed without skin, 
head, or entrails). One was shot northwest of Flagstaff, Arizona, and 
the other down in the Sonora desert. The Arizona buck had been 
hit in the ham as he ran away from me and I had cut away 10 or 
12 pounds of bloodshot meat. How much would they have weighed 
field dressed? I don't know. They might have gone 250 pounds or 
so and well over 300 on the hoof. 

I have only seen one buck I thought would weigh 300 pounds 
field dressed, and it was shot in exactly the same area, S,late Moun- 
tain northwest of Flagstaff, where I killed my heaviest Arizona buck. 
He was distinctly larger than any other buck I've ever seen. But 



The Mule Deer 265 

anyone who gets a buck that weighs 175 pounds field dressed has a 
large one, and anyone who gets one that weighs 200 has a very large 
one. A Western game warden I know has weighed hundreds of mule 
deer and says he has never seen one that weighed more than 225 
pounds dressed. I have yet to see a buck mule deer anything like as 
large as a spike bull elk. 

In most areas with which I'm familiar, the mule deer begin to 
show signs of the rut by the end of the first week in November, and 
by the middle of November most of the bucks have swelled necks 
and are starting to get interested in the does. The height of the rut 
for most Rocky Mountain mule deer is probably about the last 
week of November and the first week of December. Then each big 
buck collects as large a harem as he can and viciously defends it 
from other bucks. 

The desert mule deer of southern Arizona and northern Sonora 
are not well into the rut until about the middle of January, appar- 
ently a provision of nature for the does to be in milk during the 
summer rains. The old bucks have a grim time. Each will have 
from four to 12 does, and the bunch will move endlessly, restlessly. 
Hanging around the outskirts will be from two to four smaller 
bucks. Now and then when one of these approaches too closely, the 
big herd buck will chase it away. Occasionally one of the hangers-on 
will do battle, but generally they turn tail and run. On many occa- 
sions I have seen a small buck slip in and cover a doe while the lord 
of the harem was chasing off another one, but I have yet to see the 
big, heavy-horned bucks in the act of mating. I have a notion 
that most of the breeding is actually done by the young bucks, and 
that big fellows have all the responsibility and little else. 

At the height of the rut the old buck is a sight awesome yet 
piteous, and at that time he's easily killed. He has a wild and 
desperate look in his eyes as anyone would who had 12 wives ready 
to two-time him and he looks gaunt and ragged. Generally he has 
a point or two broken off his antlers and skinned and bleeding 
places on his neck. The ones I've seen have always been running 
around with their mouths open as if they had difficulty in breathing, 
and I have had them go by me within 20 feet and pay no attention 

to me. 

A Mexican cowboy I once knew was sitting on a hillside one 
January day brewing a can of coffee and heating up some tortillas 
when he saw a desert mule deer doe trot by about 50 yards away. A 



266 Jack O'Connor 

minute or so later a big buck, following her trail with his nose to 
the ground, came into sight. The vaquero had a little Winchester 
Model 92 .25/20 carbine on his saddle. He unlimbered it and shot 
the buck in the neck. Before he could get to it a smaller buck carne 
along on the trail. He shot that one and a moment later yet another 
this an ardent little forkhorn. I went by his place a week after- 
ward and he had jerky strung up everywhere. 

Once the rut is over, the bucks leave the does and start putting 
some fat on their ribs. Sometimes one sees solitary bucks, but gen- 
erally a couple will travel together, often a large buck and a small 
one. Occasionally before the rut I have seen several together, and 
one time near Slate Mountain I saw a herd of about 30 fine big 
bucks. But that was exceptional. 

The gestation period of the mule deer is seven months, and in 
the Rocky Mountains the young are born in late May and early 
June. In the deserts, of course, they are born later. Young does 
generally give birth to single fawns, but mature does almost always 
have twins. In areas where food is plentiful and predators are not 
numerous, around 40 per cent of the deer should be taken annually 
if the herd is to be kept within the limits of its food supply. 

Coyotes and bobcats take fawns, and some are even killed by 
golden eagles. But greatest natural predator of the mule deer is the 
mountain lion. Every one of these big cats, the most skillful deer 
hunters in the world, will kill from 100 to 150 deer a year a lot of 
deer. Compared with the incredibly stealthy mountain lion, man 
isn't a very good hunter. 

One factor in the astonishing increase of mule deer throughout 
the West has been the thinning out of the lion population in certain 
areas. In Arizona's Kaibab, which was for years open to lion hunting 
but closed for deer, the explosion of the deer population with the 
result that tens of thousands of them starved to death and the range 
was permanently damaged came about because there were too few 
lions. In the West today there are many problem deer areas because 
there is not only a shortage of lions but because the coyotes have 
been poisoned off. 

As is the case with most other game meat, mule deer venison 
varies enormously with the time the deer was taken, his condition, 
the manner in which he was killed, and what he'd been eating. No 
deer taken during and right after the rut is much good to eat, and 
no deer is good if he's been wounded and chased all over the coun- 



The Mule Deer 267 

try before being dispatched. The deer of some localities produce 
fine venison and of others they do not. I think the answer lies in 
their food. 

The desert mule deer of southern Arizona and northern Mexico 
(like the bighorn sheep and whitetails that occupy the same country) 
are almost always fine eating. The answer probably lies in what 
they eat mild and nourishing plants like jojoba, mesquite beans, 
leaves of the ironwood, and cactus fruit. Some mule deer in the 
Southwest spend the entire year on the winter range, and without 
exception these are poor eating because of the bitter plants, such as 
juniper and quinine brush, they devour. Deer that have fattened 
on mild morsels such as aspen leaves, mushrooms, and pinon nuts 
are as good as the best beef. I have shot several deer on the Salmon 
River upstream from Riggins, Idaho, and I have yet to find one that 
furnished first-class venison. On the other hand, all the deer I have 
taken off the Snake River upstream from Lewiston, Idaho, would 
melt in your mouth. 

One of the worst bucks I ever ate was a fine, fat three-year-old 
I took in the pinon-juniper belt in northern Arizona, and one of 
the most delicious was an old-timer I shot in the Kaibab. He was 
hog fat with four inches of lard on his rump, and I think I must 
have taken him right after he came down from the summer range 
where he'd been feasting on mushrooms and aspen leaves. He was 
blind in one eye, and so old I think he'd lost his interest in the gals. 
Although I shot him on Armistice Day a time when the necks of 
most of the bucks were swelled and some of them were showing 
interest in the does he gave no sign at all of the rut. His meat was 
so tender you could cut it with a fork. But once the rut is well under 
way, the venison is strong and musty. 

Some of my most pleasant memories are of hunting mule deer. 
I have hunted them right at timberline in the Rockies, where they 
can be glassed and stalked like sheep. On those lofty ridges right at 
the limit of trees it has been my experience that the deer are almost 
always bucks generally big ones as the does and young bucks 
like to summer lower where there is more cover. And I have still- 
hunted them down in the flat deserts of Sonora so close to salt water 
that I could see the blue Gulf of California by climbing a little hill. 
It's a great joy to sneak quietly along upwind in the fresh, chilly 
hours of early morning watching through the cholla and palo verde 
for the glimpse of gray that means a deer. It is easy tracking country, 



268 Jack O'Connor 

and often I have taken up the fresh track of a buck as he fed along. 

But some of the most interesting hunts I have ever had have 
been on horseback for the great bucks of Arizona's north Kaibab. 
I used to like to hit it late in the season after a snow on the summer 
range had pushed the big bucks down onto the semi-open winter 
range. It is easy riding country for the most part wide, shallow 
draws and long ridges clothed with a scattering of junipers, A 
couple of horsemen riding down a ridge will usually push deer off 
the points. The action can be fast and furious when a big buck 
comes tearing across an open flat or trotting along a hillside flashing 
in and out of the junipers. That used to be a great deer country, 
and I presume it still is. Many times I've seen from 10 to go big 
bucks in a day, and well over 100 deer, and the man who could 
pass up the ordinary heads had a good chance of finding a trophy 
to be proud of. 

Once a friend and I were hunting there on horseback when we 
saw a tremendous buck just going over a ridge. The footing was 
good for horses, so we dug in the spurs and went after it. We chased 
it over about three ridges, never having it in sight long enough to 
jump off and shoot. Then the buck (no dumbbell he) cut to the 
left up a draw and turned left again about 300 yards away in an 
effort to get into heavy timber. I jumped off my horse, grabbed my 
.30/06 out of the scabbard, swung ahead of him, and let drive. I 
saw him go down at the front quarters, and then he was out of sight. 

We jumped on our horses again, took after him, and found him 
down. He looked not long for this world, but he was still breathing. 
Foolishly I decided to cut his throat. At the prick of the knife he 
came frantically alive. I dropped the knife and threw myself on his 
head, with a hand on each antler. The buck dragged me in a 50- 
yard circle, bumping me against every bush and tree around. When 
he finally collapsed I was skinned, dusty, and covered with blood. 
From that time on I have never tried to dispatch another animal 
by attempting to cut its throat. 

Because mule deer are usually found in open, hilly country, and 
because they tend to move out ahead of danger, they are generally 
shot at longer ranges than are whitetails. As I look back on 40 years 
of hunting them, I'd guess the average range at which I've shot 
muleys has been well over 200 yards maybe 250. 1 have shot a good 
many at 300 or a little over, but doubt very much if I've ever shot 
more than one or two at 400. Those I have taken in the brushy 
desert have, of course, been much closer. 



The Mule Deer 269 

I believe I've taken more mule deer with a .30/06 than with any- 
thing else, and because they usually open up quicker I like the 
150-grain bullets better than the i8o's. Compared with a moose or 
an elk, even a large mule deer is lightly constructed, offering no 
great amount of resistance to a bullet, and the heavily constructed 
ones don't open up quickly enough to nail deer in their tracks. The 
.30/30 with the old soft-point bullet with plenty of lead exposed is 
good deer medicine up to about 150 yards, but beyond that distance 
it won't anchor a deer unless the shot is placed just right. With the 
i5o-grain bullet in the .30/06 or .300 Magnum, or the i3o-grain 
bullet in the .270, quick and spectacular kills are the rule. 

Oddly enough I have killed more deer with fewer shots with the 
7 X 57 Mauser than with anything else all with i^-O-grain bullets. 
I believe I have killed 12 deer with 12 hits. In Mexico, over a score 
of years ago, I once had to shoot a desert mule deer twice with a 
7 mm., but a few years ago I let fly at a fat doe at about 300 yards 
and the bullet went through her and killed a spike buck on the far 
side. Both came rolling down the hillside at the same time. 

Once I literally killed a big buck in his tracks with the 7 mm. I 
was out with my wife, who had shot a buck earlier, when we saw 
this beautiful buck standing by a tree about 200 yards away across 
the canyon. I dropped into a sitting position and let one go. He 
collapsed like a paper deer in a puff of wind. When we went over 
we could see that his feet were still in his last tracks. I have a lot of 
respect for that little 7 mm. 

Much as I like old Odocoileus hemionus, I have to admit that 
he doesn't have as much in the way of gray matter under the antlers 
as an elk or a whitetail, and that he won't give the hunter quite as 
much of a run for his money. We all can't be geniuses, though, and 
the mule-deer hunter who confines himself to the hunting of big 
bucks will get all the action he could want. And when he gets a real 
trophy head he has something the finest antlers worn by any 
American deer. 



GENERAl 



THE 1960 ALL-AMERICA 

By Stanley Woodward 

From The New York Herald Tribune 

Copyright, , 1960, New York Herald Tribune, Inc. 

ALL-AMERICA TEAM POS. ALL-TIME TEAM 

Schlodoun, Tulane E Whytecriss, Mass. 

Mann, Furman E Spelada, U.-Conn. 

Uaidoniponda, Suwanee .... T Strentha, Tenn. 

Chierfrolle, Notre Dame T O'Sakin, U. C, 

Snowdin, Buffalo G Prehz, Ala. 

Tregrozin, Brooklyn G Mietmein, St. Louis 

Perphydyus, Albion C Yurinda, Army 

Spray, Ursinus Q Grand, Kenyon 

Proto, Col B Ithadda, B. U. 

Taingonaraino, Mo B Wearan, Wash. 

Cheezitda, COP B Sailano, Union 

This department's annual All-America football team, assembled 
with the aid of numerous volunteer selectors and the diminishing 
cooperation of ASCAP and Tin Pan Alley, is the i6th and may be 
the last unless the amateur wing gives its all. 

The hunt for players worthy of selection no longer is the easy 
touch it was in the '403, when you could find a worthy candidate 
wherever you turned. In those days giants walked the earth, such 
men as: DePindeharta, Texas; Munova, Miami; Zeidvokzov, New 
York; Starzfellen, Alabama; Awn, Wisconsin; Fergaad, Fercontree, 
Anfer, Yale; Alhailter, U. S. C.; DeBelza, St. Mary's; Marchintrue, 
Georgia; von Tergebachter, Oregon, and Bakomaganin, Indiana. 

We make no claim that the current team could play on the same 
field with those of 1945 or 1946, but it has a few able individuals, 
including the quarterback, Spray, Ursinus, the nominee of Sande's 

270 



The 1960 All-America 271 

drugstore, 76th and Broadway. This boy has relieved many a tight 
situation. 

It should be noted that Chierfrolle, Notre Dame, is no relation 
to Checherferol, Notre Dame, who made one of the early second 
teams, despite the similarity of names. However, this boy made his 
position in a close finish with Eyanian, American, and Urduinfein, 
Oklahoma. There was little to choose among them. 

Uaidoniponda, Suwanee, also won his position in a photo finish 
over Gotagallin, Baltimore, and Mytelaka, Rose. Farmerinda, Del., 
also was considered here but failed again to impress the selector. 
It was claimed that Uaidoniponda was ineligible, having been red- 
shirted five years after making the All-America under a slightly 
different name. This could not be established. 

The selector himself will have to take the blame for missing a 
fine local player last year. We are referring to Tregrozin, Brooklyn. 
The fact that Brooklyn has no football team is no excuse. 

We have full faith in his running-mate, Snowdin, Buffalo, a 
worthy successor on the "All" team to that great backfield per- 
former, Schuflofter, Buffalo. "Snow" may always be expected to 
show at his strongest in late season upstate. 

Except for DeBoisfromme, Syracuse, originally recommended by 
our drama department, all the members of last year's all-time team 
including the spectacular Bruscyatietwicz, Colgate, and the rhyth- 
mic Croczdeweid, Missouri, were ASCAP originals. In view of the 
strained relations that have now developed between the world of 
music and this department, we decided to wipe the slate clean and 
to start with a new All-Time team which is nothing but last year's 
All-America. 

The tie with ASCAP is not completely broken, for four of these 
boys were definitely scouted by the musical wing, they being: 
O'Sakin, U, C.; Mietmein, St. Louis; Whytecriss, Mass., and Ithadda, 
B. U, The question of who scouted Yurinda, Army, is moot. All of 
these boys are worthy All-Timers and Spelada, U-Conn. is ranked 
superior to Zeidvoksov, New York, as a tackle. 

Unless there is a serious squawk from the alumni, the All-Time 
team will be altered henceforth only to admit qualified new All- 
Americas. 



THE SOUNDS OF SPORTS 
By Bob Addie 

From The Washington Post 
Copyright, , 1960, The Washington Post 



Sounds, sounds and sounds: 

Even the sound of "sound" makes you think of sound. . . . There 
are many sounds familiar to all and they're like melodies dredging 
up long-forgotten memories. . . . There is a sound of a train whistle 
while you're in the half-world of drowsiness. ... It makes you think 
of being a boy and dreaming of traveling to 48 states. . . . (How can 
you travel to Alaska and Hawaii by train?) 

If you've seen enough baseball games, it's fun to stand aside, a 
bit removed from the game, and try to figure out what is happening 
through the sound of the crowd. . . . Ah, the sound of the crowd 
there, now, is a personality. . . . You can tell when a ball is hit foul 
the anticipatory yell and then the sudden cutoff, like turning off 
the sound of a TV set. 

You can tell a rally from the mounting sound which builds up 
like the rumble of thunder and, in the fulfillment of the rally, 
bursts like the thunder clap. . . . The crowd loses its identity be- 
tween innings and the one, deep, thrilling voice, like the voice of 
an operatic baritone, is broken down into individual sounds like a 
million crickets who can't carry a tune. 

There is the sound of a touchdown run. . . . This one doesn't 
spring, full-grown. ... It starts as a baby sound and suddenly it 
becomes adult. ... It is the boy soprano singing in the choir and 
then the blended voices of a glee club, from deep down, released 
from one full throat. 

Sports sounds are like Roman candles, . . . They soar, up, up, up, 
and burst into a brilliant din for there is brilliance in sound, too. 
. . . The sound of a tennis crowd is something else. . . . It's not polite 
to root during a point but when a point is made, the sound erupts 
and then is strangled and rattles reluctantly into silence. 

There is the sound of silence, sometimes as exciting as a roar. . . . 
There is the sound of silence when a vital point after touchdown is 



The Sounds of Sports 273 

attempted, or a foul shot in basketball, on which may hinge the 
result of a game. . . . There is the sound of silence when a man is 
hurt in any sport because the sound of a sports crowd is a gentle 
and compassionate thing. . . . But a crowd can be cruel, too. . . . 
There is the mock cheer which greets a home-team pitcher who 
finally gets the ball over the plate after being wild, or the fielder 
who finally makes the clean play after giving a performance as "the 
unclutchable" on ground balls. 

The fight crowd yammering for the kill is another sound. ... It 
must have been the sound the gladiators heard in Rome when they 
donned cesti and went forth to maim and kill for survival. . . . The 
fight crowd is basic and animalistic, yet it has a civilized touch, too 
the applause when one fighter gallantly refuses to press an ad- 
vantage over a foe who has slipped or has gone through the ropes. 

Applause is part of the sound world, too. . . . There is the polite 
applause given a rival pitcher when he is knocked out of the box. 
. . . The voice is for rooting; the hands are for the amenities. , . . 
But applause can be thrilling, too the applause (but seldom a yell, 
isn't it funny?) for the football hero taken out of a game; for an 
injured player who is carried off the field. 

When a player is honored with a "day" or a "night," people 
seldom scream their appreciation. . . . The hands take over again; 
the sound of many hands clapping. . . . When it's for you, it can be 
a thrill. . . . This is the only sound the theater knows except per- 
haps in opera, where the applause turns naturally into bravos. 

There are the sounds of morning, the first bird giving a tentative 
chirp; the cars moving out of the driveways; the singing of the tires 
on the highway; the waking-up sounds of the household with fuzzy 
voices, like chicks, breaking through the shell of sleep. 

There are the sounds of the afternoon, the yells of children at 
play; the jackhammer pecking away hypnotically on a construction 
job; the racket of the lawn-mowers. 

And there are the sounds of evening, the wind rustling the trees; 
a lone airplane droning away; the sadness of a foghorn; the grunting 
and groaning of the day turning into night sighs; the buses wheez- 
ing and coughing their way around town; the softened good-nights 
of departing guests, then the slam of car doors, and, finally, the 
silence of sound. 



UNDERNEATH THE TABLE 

By Jerry Izenberg 

From The Newark Star-Ledger 
Copyright, , 1960, Newark Morning Ledger Co. 



I've covered stock car races in baseball parks, football games in 
blizzards and, as a GI, a college basketball game on a concrete court 
in Korea. Once I even covered a fly-casting derby in the middle of 
Market Street. 

But last Thursday at Madison Square Garden, I hit a new low. 
I covered a basketball riot from underneath the press table. 

This wasn't my idea of how to handle a story. In fact it wasn't 
my idea at all I was belted there by the Manhattan and NYU 
basketball teams. They did a good job. Not only did they floor me 
they kept me down. 

I saw more hairy legs, sneakers and knee guards than I've ever 
seen in my life. The special cops said afterward that it really wasn't 
a riot at all. That's O.K. for them they weren't at the bottom of 
the pile. 

By the time NYU's Tom Sanders stopped bleeding all over my 
notes my inventory read like this: 

One smashed typewriter cover. 

One out-of-line portable typewriter keyboard suitable for typing 
around corners. 

One set of shattered eyeglass frames, which eventually cracked 
in half, 

A narrow cut along the left side of the nose. 

A cut, swollen and slightly bloody left wrist. 

The next day a New York writer reported: 

"Luckily no one was hurt but a few innocent bystanders who 
didn't get out of the way fast enough." 

As a duly battered representative of the Walking Wounded 
Innocent Bystanders Marching and Fighting Society I have a few 
things to add. 

I had begun working on an early edition story just a few minutes 

274 



Underneath the Table 275 

before Manhattan's Charley Koenig and Sanders touched off the 
brawl. I remember writing: 

"Tempers flared repeatedly through the contest and there were a 
few minor scuffles." 

At that point I looked up just in time to see Koenig rap Sanders 
in the mouth directly in front of my seat. I said two words (neither 
quotable) and rose halfway in my chair. By that time Sanders was 
sprawled across the table. 

I don't know how many guys Kenny Norton carries on his Man- 
hattan varsity but every one of them wanted to use me for a launch- 
ing pad to Sanders. 

Two came hurtling through the air. They missed Sanders they 
didn't miss me. My glasses went tumbling to the ground. 

I made two grabs. One for my typewriter and one for the glasses. 
I missed both times. 

Without glasses I have the vision of an over-aged bat. I remember 
groping around the floor feeling around for them. Each time I 
retrieved them and rose to my knees, somebody knocked me down. 

It's amazing what an interesting perspective you can acquire 
that way. 

Two weeks ago Villanova and Manhattan students traded 
punches and I stood up to watch the show. Last Thursday Koenig 
hit Sanders and I was in it. 

Next Thursday Seton Hall plays Niagara in the Garden. Well I'm 
in training now. I've switched from beer to scotch. Honey Russell 
and Taps Gallagher better keep their kids on the bench because I'll 
be ready for them. 

As a postscript one New York writer asked me: 

"Who were the two Manhattan guys who knocked you down?" 

"How should I know/' I answered. 

"Well, they had numbers, didn't they?" 

I almost hit him but then you can start one hell of a riot that 
way. 



LET THE KIDS PLAY 
By Hal Lebovitz 

From The Cleveland Plain Dealer 
Copyright, , 1960, The Cleveland Plain Dealer 



After four unforgettable years ray son and I have ended our Little 
League careers, he as a player, I as a spectator. This is my vale- 
dictory, written in the hope that other fathers and, yes, even moth- 
ers, may see the light. 

Frankly, I thought my behavior at the games was exemplary and 
adult. But recently I decided to interview my son. For years I have 
been interviewing the Yogi Berras, the Ted Williams, the Jimmy 
Browns, the Jack Dempseys. Why not Neil Lebovitz, my favorite 
Little League catcher? 

"Are you enjoying Little League ball?" I asked him. 

"Yes, dad, a lot." 

"Is there anything I could do to help make it more enjoyable?" 

"Well, dad, you know a lot about baseball, probably more than 
most fathers " 

My chest expanded several inches until he said, "But. ..." This 
one word punctured the balloon completely. 

"But," he continued, "I wish you wouldn't talk to me during the 
game. You keep yelling to me, 'Get up closer/ and 'Don't step away/ 
and things like that. I try to listen to you and to the manager and 
watch the ball all at the same time and I don't feel comfortable. It 
gets me confused." 

"Well, I'm only trying to help." 

"I know," he said. "But you asked me, dad, so I'm telling you. If 
you want to help me improve, I'd like it better if you waited until 
we got home." 

"Is there anything I could say at the game if I had to say some- 
thing that would help you?" 

"Well, I like it when my teammates tell me, 'Don't worry, you'll 
get 'em next time/ after I do something wrong. I like it when you 
compliment me and encourage me. I don't like it when you tell me 
what I'm doing wrong at the game." 

276 



Let the Kids Play 277 

So ended our interview. Needless to say I was jarred. But I knew 
he was right. He was saying "Let me play my own game. You can't 
play it for me." He was reminding me of the truism "Buildl Don't 
belittle," or phrased more commonly, "Boost! Don't knock." 

It was no consolation to me to know that I was no different from 
other fathers. I discussed the matter with George Kell, former major 
league great who is now broadcasting the Tigers' games. He, too, 
has a Little League son. 

"When my boy takes a third strike it kills me," he confessed. 
"When he gets a hit I'm reborn. More so than when I experienced 
those things myself. It's funny how we blow up at our kid's mistakes, 
forgetting that we made them ourselves. You'd think I never took a 
third strike or dropped a ball." 

The ultimate danger of our actions was revealed by George Me- 
Kinnon, the baseball coach at Cleveland Heights High. "In our 
community we have a marvelous Little League program," he said. 
"You'd think we'd eventually get a lot of talent from it for our high 
school team. But by the time the boys reach us most of them have 
turned to other interests. And do you know the reason? Their par- 
ents made baseball so frustrating they turned to something in which 
there was less parental pressure." 

Still, I'm delighted my boy played Little League ball. Sports 
opens doors to friendships as no other endeavor can. I'm especially 
glad we had that father-son interview, late as it was. During the 
final weeks of the season he played his own game. I stopped playing 
it for him. He was a much better player. Clearly, he had more fun. 

Surprisingly, so did I. 



FROM THE IVORY TOWER 

By Bill Leiser 

From The San Francisco Chronicle 
Copyright, , 1960, The San Francisco Chronicle 



Harvard President Emeritus James Conant told University of 
California listeners Monday he believed high schools could do better 
work if newspapers paid as much attention to educational develop- 
ments as they now pay to the "least important aspects" such as ath- 
letics and marching bands. 

This, we suppose, was a criticism of newspapers, but it was a mild 
one. It was also an indication that newspaper reviews can help 
education. 

We noted immediately that newspapers do pay some attention to 
such educational developments as spelling contests, debates, and 
matches in oratory. Even in news writing contests. 

In other words, newspapers will pay attention to competition, if 
you provide them with some competition to which attention may 
be paid. 

It shouldn't stretch the imagination of educators too much to in- 
vent rules of competition for model airplane builders, for example. 
Or of little electric motor builders. All sorts of competitions could 
be devised, competitions that would take from ten minutes to two 
hours. They could be on local, national, and even international 
scale. They would gain plenty of newspaper space. The 4-H clubs 
get it. 

If attention of newspapers will improve our high schools, the 
educators can easily win it. If THEY will find a way to emphasize 
their educational accomplishments, the newspapers will record them. 
The most simple way is through competition. 

Athletics and marching bands are the "least important aspects" 
of high school enterprise. 

We wonder. 

Is nothing important unless it deals with life or death? 

Is the high school boy who devotes most of his time to learning 
how to build a fall-out proof bomb shelter doing something really 

278 



From the Ivory Tower 279 

important? And is the boy who devotes his after-school hours to 
sports or marching bands doing the least important thing? 

We'd believe it all depends. Why do boys carry machine guns and 
fight wars? That's "important," isn't it, but why do they go about 
the dirty business? 

So they can go back home and enjoy a hot dog in the corner drug 
store. What do you think they dream of when they're out there 
doing "important" things? 

They dream of getting back where the unimportant things become 
important again. 

Athletics and marching bands are means of pleasure to high 
school youngsters and to their parents. Surely it's important that 
students gifted in science have opportunity to make progress. It's 
important that those who have ability to achieve something have a 
chance to prove it. 

We must build the power to survive. 

Why? 

Would you wish to live the rest of your life, for instance, in a 
completely safe fall-out proof bomb shelter? What for? 

If there were no more "unimportant aspects" such as athletics and 
marching bands left to enjoy, what would be the purpose in living? 

How important is the Queen of England? She can't make a deci- 
sion. She's just a wonderful person British citizens enjoy. Totally 
unimportant. Russia has no such unimportant people around. 

How important is a song writer? A great artist? An entertaining 
TV performer? They're only something to enjoy. 

High school athletics and marching bands are only something to 
enjoy. 

So are college sports which will cause as many as 100,000 citizens 
to assemble in one place to watch. We'll forget the industry, the 
jobs, and all else involved for the moment. But, do you think any 
event which will cause 100,000 to assemble in good faith and spirit 
just for the fun involved is an unimportant event? 

We submit that if and when the good fun, laughter, emotional 
outlet, short time concentration, good fellowship, and entertain- 
ment provided by such as sports and the theatre are eliminated, it 
won't matter much what the men devoted to "important" work 
achieve. 

There won't be anything to live for, anyhow. 



THE BREED CALLED "MUTT" 

By Ray Haywood 

From The Oakland (Gal.) Tribune 
Copyright, , 1960, The Oakland Tribune 



The American Kennel Club, after counting its registrations, says 
the national dog popularity winner and still the champion after 
seven straight years is that friendly rover, the beagle. 

We doff our hat in deference to the kennel club, an august and 
proper organization which always whistles on key when it summons 
its dogs. 

But, we believe the club unwittingly has been guilty of grievous 
error. It has failed to give the true All-American dog his day. 

We say this not to criticize either the beagle or the club. The 
beagle, originally bred for the hunting of small game, such as rab- 
bits, is an excellent dog. 

He still retains his hunting instincts, although encroaching civili- 
zation has forced him to do most of his small game tracking for 
neighborhood cats or handouts from friendly dogless couples. 

The club also says, and this surprises us, that poodles have re- 
placed chihuahuas for second place which should be a commen- 
tary of some kind on the state of current culture. 

German shepherds, boxers and collies are rated fifth, seventh and 
ninth, respectively, with dachshunds, cockers and Pekingese win- 
ning the in-between positions. 

The trend toward smaller dogs is caused by diverse factors such 
as smaller appetites, cheaper, better suited for apartments, need less 
exercise and are well tailored to fit in smaller automobiles. 

The kennel club's findings are very interesting, but we believe 
we can prove popularity honors belong to a dog other than the 
beagle, and allege further, in fact, the pooch most apt to be found 
leaving muddy paw prints on the newly waxed hardwood isn't found 
in the kennel club's first 10. 

The dog actually most popular has no papers except those spread 
in his sleeping quarters San Francisco papers are excellent for this 
after he refuses to go for his evening run. 

280 



The Breed Called "Mutt" 281 

But, nevertheless, our nomination combines the best qualities of 
the beagle, cocker, police dog and chihuahua to name a possible 
combination in one lovable package. 

He is the breed called the mutt. 

Some people call them mongrels, but these slanderers usually are 
cat lovers. 

The kennel club can't be blamed for assuming the beagle is most 
popular because there are no registrations for mutts. 

People never acquire mutts. Mutts acquire people. 

They do this in various mysterious ways. Some apparently ^are 
abandoned, helpless and appealing, on front door steps. Others just 
wander around a neighborhood until they find a place they like. 

Once they approve of a family and residence they move in in- 
gratiatingly, but rapidly, like a great salesman sure of a sale because 
he is selling a product he likes himself. 

They immediately bark at the garbage man to demonstrate their 
value as a guardian and turn themselves inside out with joy when 
the head of the house reaches home even though they never have 
seen the man before they know the final decision on staying will be 
his. 

They offer to fetch the paper, slippers and pipe, and will mix the 
martinis if someone will just tell them if they are to be three-to-one 
or really dry. 

Not even extreme torture like being given a bath could force 
them to sleep on the front room chesterfield, even when alone at 
home. 

They make it apparent their sole desire, only purpose in life, is to 
please you, not themselves. 

Three weeks later they not only bark at the garbage man, they 
bite him and give his lawyer more of the same when he arrives to 
discuss damages. 

They no longer are interested in running errands or doing tricks. 
They protest with staccato barks when dinner is slightly late, and 
look reproachful when served dog food instead of steak. They sulk 
because you won't spade the front lawn so it will be easier for them 
to bury their bones. 

But, by this time it is too late. They are established as part of the 
family, and thus are entitled to curl up on the chesterfield like 
everyone else. 

The blooded dog is known to stray, in fact, the beagle is notorious 



282 Ray Haywood 

for his travel habits. But the mutt, once he acquires a family, 
couldn't be enticed away by a new world full of slow cats and tender 
mailmen. 

We know these things to be true, because long ago we were 
adopted by a mutt. The family still isn't certain how he arrived 
although we suspect the children might have had something to do 
with it nor how he fooled us into thinking he was sweet and 
lovable. 

We don't doubt his intelligence, but sometimes quarrel with his 
thinking. He now is interested in pleasing us only if in so doing he 
pleases himself. 

Our neighborhood is filled with his counterpart in various inter- 
esting combinations, some of which we suspect he had a hand in 
fashioning countless legions of mutts, all howling at the moon. 

If the American Kennel Club would forget the business of regis- 
trations and hold a cold nose count we are confident it would an- 
nounce the mutt, not the beagle, is the American man's best friend. 



FOR THE RECORD 



CHAMPIONS OF 1960 



ARCHERY 

World Champions 

Men James Gaspers, U. S. 
Women Mrs. Ann Corby, U. S. 

United States Target Champions 

Men Robert Kadlec, Rochester, 

Minn. 

Women Ann Clark, Cincinnati. 
Men's Team Pennsylvania State 

Team. 
Women's Team Greene (N. Y.) 

Archers. 

AUTO RACING 

Indianapolis 500 Jim Rathmann, 

Miami. 
World Champion Jack Brabham, 

Australia. 
Le Mans Oliver Gendebien and Paul 

Frere, Belgium (Ferrari). 

BADMINTON 

Thomas Cup (men) Indonesia. 
Uber Cup (women) United States. 

National Champions 

Men's Singles Tan Joe Hok, Indo- 
nesia. 
Women's Singles Judy Devlin, Balti- 



Men's Doubles Finn Kobbero, Den- 
mark, and Charoen Watanasin, 
Thailand 

Women's Doubles Judy and Sue 
Devlin. 

Mixed Doubles Kobbero aad 

Margaret Varner, Wilmington, Del. 

Senior Men's Doubles Wayne Schell 
and Harold Seavey, Boston. 

Senior Women's Doubles Thelma 
Burdick and Eleanor Coambs, Chi- 
cago. 

BASEBALL 

World Series Pittsburgh Pirates. 

National League Pittsburgh Pirates. 

American League New York Yankees. 

All-Star Games (Both) National 
League. 

Leading Batsman (N.) Dick Groat, 
Pittsburgh. 

Leading Batsman (A.) Pete Runnels, 
Boston. 

Little World Series Louisville. 

International League Toronto, regu- 
lar season and play-off. 

American Association Denver (regular 
season); Louisville (play-off). 

Pacific Coast League Spokane. 

N. C. A. A. Minnesota. 

Eastern Intercollegiate Army. 

283 



284 



Champions of 



BASKETBALL 

Amateur 



National Collegiate- Ohio State. 

National Invitation Bradley. 

Ivy League Princeton. 

Yankee Conference Connecticut. 

Middle Atlantic Conference (Univer- 
sity) St. Joseph's. 

Middle Atlantic (College, North) 
Wagner. 

Middle Atlantic (College, South) 
Drexel. 

Atlantic Coast ConferenceDuke. 

Southeastern Conference Auburn. 

Southern Conference West Virginia. 

Western Conference Ohio State. 

Big Eight Conference Kansas State 
and Kansas. 

Missouri Valley Conference 
Cincinnati. 

Southwest Conference Texas. 

Skyline Conference Utah. 

Rocky Mountain Conference Idaho 
State. 

Mid-American Conference Ohio U. 

West Coast Conference Santa Clara. 

Middle Eastern Conference LeMoyne. 

Midwest Conference Cornell and 
Knox. 

National Association of Intercollegiate 
Athletics Southwest Texas. 

Amateur Athletic Union Peoria Cat- 
erpillars. 

Women's A.A.U. Nashville Business 
College. 

Professional 
National Association Boston Celtics. 

BILLIARDS 

World PocketWillie Mosconi, Phila- 
delphia. 

World 3-Cushion R. Vingerhoedt, 
. Belgium. 



U. S. Amateur 3-Cushion E. Lee, New 
York. 

BOBSLEDDING 
World Champions 

Two-Man Italy. 
Four-Man Italy. 

National A.A.U. Champions 

Two-Man Eugenio Monti and Gary 

Sheffield. 
Four-Man Saranac Lake Bobsled 

Club. 

North American Champions 
Two-Man Monti and Charles Pan- 

dolph. 

Four-Man Monti, Pat Neartin, Shef- 
field and Pandolph. 

BOWLING 

American Bowling Congress 
All-Events Vince Lucci, Trenton. 
Singles Paul Kulbaga, Cleveland. 
Doubles Andy Marzich and Dick Jen- 
sen, Los Angeles, 

Five-Man Team A. and A. Asphalt, 
Detroit. 

Women's International Bowling 

Congress 
All-Events Judy Roberts, Angola, 

N.-Y. 
Singles Marge McDaniels, Mt. View, 

Calif. 
Doubles Freda Laiber and Jette 

Mooney, South Bend, Ind. 
Five-Woman Team Spare Time 

Games Team, Cincinnati. 

BOXING 

World Professional Champions 
Flyweight Pone Kingpetch, Thailand. 
Bantamweight Eder Jofre, Brazil. 



Champions of 1960 



285 



Featherweight Davey Moore, Spring- 
field, O. 

Junior Lightweight Flash Elorde, 
Philippines. 

Lightweight Joe Brown, New Or- 
leans. 

Junior Welterweight Duilio Loi, 
Italy. 

Welterweight Benny (Kid) Paret, 
Cuba. 

Middleweight Gene Fullmer, West 
Jordan, Utah (N.B.A.); Paul Pender, 
Boston (New York State and Massa- 
chusetts). 

Light Heavyweight A. Moore, San 
Diego. 

Heavyweight Floyd Patterson, New 
York. 

National A.A.U. Champions 

iis-Pound Wayman Gray, Monroe, 

Mich. 
iiQ-Pound Oscar German, Muskegon, 

Mich. 

125-Pound George Foster, Cincinnati. 
132-Pound Brian O'Shea, Chicago. 
igg-Pound Vincent Shomo, New 

York. 
147-Pound Phil Baldwin, Muskegon, 

Mich. 

156-Pound Wilbert McClure, Toledo. 
1 65-Pound Leotis Martin, Toledo. 
1 78-Pound Cassius Clay, Louisville. 
Heavyweight Harold Espy, Pocatello, 

Idaho. 

National Collegiate Champions 

i 1 2-Pound Heiji Schimabukuro, 

Idaho. 
11 g-Pound Ron Nichols, San Jose 

State. 
125-Pound Dave Nelson, San Jose 

State. 



132-Pound Brown McGhee, Wiscon- 
sin. 

139-Pound Steve Kubas, San Jose 
State. 

147-Pound Mills Lane, Nevada. 

156-Pound Jerry Turner, Wisconsin. 

1 65-Pound Stu Bartell, San Jose 
State. 

178-Pound John Home, Michigan 
State. 

Heavyweight Archie Milton, San Jose 
State. 

CANOEING 

U. S. Paddling Champions 

Canoe Singles Istvan Hernek, Akron. 

Kayak Singles Paul Beecham, Wash- 
ington. 

Canoe Tandem Walter Haase and 
Roger Van de Muelebroecke, Wash- 
ington. 

Kayak Tandem Kenneth Wilson and 
John Wolters, New York. 

Canoe Fours Haase, William Schuette, 
Robert Cavaiola and Van de Muele- 
broecke, Washington. 

Kayak Fours David Merwin, Albert 
Stucky, John Jerome and James 
Klippert, Akron. 

Canoe Tilts William Havens Jr. and 
Frank B. Havens, Washington. 

Women's Kayak Singles Gloria Per- 
rier, Washington. 

Women's Kayak Tandem Diane 
Jerome and Mary Ann DuChai, 
Akron. 

Team Champion Washington Canoe 
Club. 

CASTING 

National Association Champions 

Ail-Around Jon Tarantino, San Fran- 
cisco. 



Champions of 1960 



All-Distance Tarantino. 

All-Accuracy Tarantino. 

Distance (Baits) E. R, Lanser, St. 
Louis. 

Distance (Flies) Tarantino. 

Accuracy (Baits) Wm. True, Minne- 
apolis. 

Accuracy (Flies) Tarantino. 

CHESS 

World Champions 

Men Mikhail Tal, Soviet Union. 
Women Mme. Elizabeth Bykova, 

Soviet Un. 
Junior Carlos Bielecki, Argentina. 

United States Champions 

Men Bobby Fischer, Brooklyn. 

Women Lisa Lane, Philadelphia. 

Men's Open Robert Byrne, Indian- 
apolis. 

Women's Open Lisa Lane. 

Men's Amateur Raul Benedicto, 
New York. 

Speed Arthur B. Bisguier, New York. 

Junior Robin Ault, Granted, N. J. 

Eastern States James T. Sherwin, 
New York. 

COURT TENNIS 

World Open Northrup Knox, 

Buffalo. 

National Amateur Knox. 
National Doubles Alastair Martin and 

Robert Grant $d, New York. 

CROSS-COUNTRY 

National A. A. U. Al Lawrence, 

Houston. 

National A. A. U. Team Houston. 
National Collegiate Al Lawrence. 
National Collegiate Team Houston. 
I. C. 4-A Robert Lowe, Brown. 
I. C. 4-A Team Penn State. 



Heptagonal Robert Lowe. 
Heptagonal Team- Army, 

CURLING 

Gordon International Canada. 
Gordon Grand National Winchester, 

Mass, 
Mitchell Medal Mississaugua (Ont.) 

No. 2. 

Allen Medal Utica C. C. 
Douglas Medal -St. Andrew's No. i. 
Men's U. S. Champion Grafton, N. D. 
Women's U. S. Champion Indian 

Hill Club Squaws, Winnetka, 111. 
Canadian Regina, Sask. 

CYCLING 

World Champions 

Professional Sprint Antonio Maspes, 

Italy. 
Amateur Sprint Santa Gaiordoni, 

Italy. 
Professional Road Rik van Looy, 

Belgium. 
Amateur Road Bernhard Eckstein, 

West Germany. 

U. S. Amateur Champions 

Senior Open James Rossi, Chicago. 
Junior Open Robert Fenn, Flushing, 

Queens. 
Girls* Open Edith Johnson, Buffalo. 

DOGS 

Best-In-Show Winners 

Westminster Mr. and Mrs. C. C. Ven- 
able's Pekingese, Ch. Ghik T'Sun 
of Caversham, Atlanta. 

Chicago International Blanche E. 
Reeg's Scottish terrier, Ch. Blanart 
Bewitching, Wantagh, L. I. 

Westchester Florence Michelson's toy 
poodle, Ch. Cappoquin Little Sister, 
Fort Lauderdale, Fla. 



Champions of 1960 



287 



Santa Barbara E. E. Ferguson's mini- 
ature poodle, Ch. Estid Ballet 
Dancer, Hollywood, Calif. 

Harbor Cities (Long Beach, Calif.) 
Ch. Cappoquin Little Sister. 

Eastern Bog Club (Boston) Barbara 
Strebeigh's, Tuck Dell's and Harold 
M. Florsheim's Airedale, Ch. Bengal 
Sabu, Birchrunville, Pa. 

National Field-Trial Champions 

Bird Dog W. C. Jones' pointer, Home 
Again Mike, Franklin, Va. 

Springer Spaniel Armforth Kennels' 
F. T. Ch. Carswell Contessa, Chi- 
cago. 

Retriever Richard Hecker's Labrador, 
Dolobran's Smoke Trail, Tucson, 
Ariz. 

Cocker Spaniel J. W. Menge's F. T. 
Ch. Berol's Petey Boy, Detroit. 

Open Pheasant Claudia Phelps' 
pointer, Homemn Bess, Aiken, S. C. 

Amateur Quail Dr. George E. Oeh- 
ler's pointer, Seairup, Springfield, 111. 

Amateur Pheasant Seairup, 

Grouse Sam R. Light's English set- 
ter, Sam L's Rebel, Punxsutawney, 
Pa. 

All-America Quail Henry E. Weil's 
Lucy's Lad, Paducah, Ky. 

FENCING 
United States Champions 

Foil Albert Axelrod, Scarsdale, N. Y. 
Epee David Micahnik, Philadelphia. 
Saber Eugene Hamori, Philadelphia. 
Women's Foil Janice Lee Romary, 

Los Angeles. 

Foil Team New York A. C. 
Epee Team United States Navy. 
Saber Team Pannonia A. C., San 

Francisco. 



Women's Foil Team Salle Lucia, New 

York. 
Three-Weapon Team New York A. 

C. 

National Collegiate Champions 

poil Eugene Glazer, N.Y.U. 
Epee Gil Eisner, N.Y.U. 
Saber Michael Dasaro, N.Y.U. 
Three-Weapon Team N.Y.U. 

Intercollegiate Association Champions 

Foil Glazer, N.Y.U. 
Epee Fred Anger, Princeton. 
Saber Dasaro, N.Y.U. 
Three-Weapon Team N.Y.U. 
Foil TeamN.Y.U. 
Epee Team Princeton. 
Saber Team Columbia. 

Women's Intercollegiate Champions 

Individual Madeline Miyamoto, Fair- 

leigh Dickinson, 
Team Fairleigh Dickinson. 

FOOTBALL 

Intercollegiate Champions 

National Minnesota. 

Eastern (Lambert Trophy) Navy and 

Yale. 
Eastern Small College (Lambert Cup) 

Bucknell. 
Ivy League Yale. 
Yankee Conf. Connecticut and Mass. 

(tie). 
Middle Atlantic Conference (Univ.) 

Rutgers. 
Middle Atlantic (Coll., North) Wag- 

ner and Albright (tie). 
Mid. Atlantic (Coll., South) Johns 

Hopkins. 

Southeastern ConferenceMississippi. 
Atlantic Coast Conference Duke. 
Southern Conference V. M. I. 



s>88 



Champions of 1960 



Ohio Valley Conference Tennessee 

Tech. 

Big Ten Minnesota and Iowa (tie). 
Mid-American Conference Ohio U. 
Midwest Conference St. Olaf. 
Missouri Valley Conference Wichita. 
Big Eight Conference Missouri. 
Big Five Conference Washington. 
Southwest Conference Arkansas. 
Border Conference New Mexico State. 
Skyline Conference Utah State and 

Wyoming (tie). 
Rocky Mountain Conference Adams 

State. 

National League 
Philadelphia Eagles. 

American League 
Houston Oilers. 

Canadian Professional 
Grey Cup Ottawa Rough Riders. 

GOLF 

Men 

National Open Arnold Palmer, La- 
trobe, Pa. 

National Amateur Deane Beman, 
Bethesda, Md. 

National P. G. A. Jay Hebert, Lafay- 
ette, La. 

British Open Kel Nagle, Australia. 

British Amateur Joseph Carr, Dub- 
lin, Ireland, 

Masters Palmer. 

Canadian Open Art Wall, Jr., Hones- 
dale, Pa. 

Canadian Amateur Keith Alexander, 
Calgary. 

Eastern Open Gene Littler, Singing 
Hills, Calif. 



Eastern Amateur Beman. 
North-South Amateur Charlie Smith, 

Gastonia, N. C. 
N.C.A.A. Dick Crawford, Houston 

Univ. 

N.C.A.A. Team Houston University. 
National Junior William Tindall, 

Seattle. 
National Public Links Verne Calli- 

son, Sacramento, Calif. 
U.S.S.G.A. Senior Johnny Dawson, 

Palm Springs, Calif. 
U.S.G.A. Senior Michael Cestone, 

Jamesburg, N. J. 

Western Open Stan Leonard, Van- 
couver, B. C. 
French Open Roberto DeVicenzo, 

Mexico City. 

World Amateur Team United States. 
Canada Cup United States. 
Americas Cup United States. 

Women 

National Amateur JoAnne Gunder- 
son, Kirkland, Wash. 

National Open Betsy Rawls, Spartan- 
burg, S. C. 

British Amateur- Barbara Mclntire, 
Tequesta, Fla. 

North-South Amateur Barbara Mcln- 
tire. 

Western Open Joyce Ziske, Water- 
ford, Wis. 

Western Amateur Mrs. Anne Casey 
Johnstone, Mason City, Iowa. 

Canadian Amateur Judy Darling, 
Hudson Heights, Que. 

Titleholders Fay Crocker, Uruguay. 

Eastern Amateur Mrs. Philip Cudone, 
West Caldwell, N. J. 

U, S. Collegiate JoAnne Gunderson. 

U. S. Senior Mrs. Edwin H. Vare Jr., 
Philadelphia, Pa. 

Curtis Cup United States. 



Champions of 1960 



289 



American Open Patty Berg, St. An- 
drews, 111. 

Ladies P.G.A. Mickey Wright, San 
Diego, Calif. 

North-South Senior Maureen Orcutt, 
Englewood, N. J. 

National Junior Carol Sorenson, 
Janesville, Wis. 

GYMNASTICS 
National AA.U. Champions 

All-AroundFred Orlofsky, Southern 
Illinois Salukis. 

Calisthenics Armando Vega, Penn 
State. 

Horizontal Bar Jack Beckner, Los 
Angeles Turners. 

Tumbling Hal Holmes, unattached. 

Long Horse Larry Banner, Los An- 
geles Turners. 

Rebound Tumbling Larry Snyder, 
University of Iowa. 

Side Horse Lieut. Garland O'Quinn, 
U. S. Army. 

Parallel Bars Vega and Orlofsky (tie). 

Rope Climb Nelson Hulme, Naval 
Academy. 

Still Rings Fred Orlofsky. 

Flying Rings Tom Darling, unat- 
tached. 

Team Penn State. 

National Collegiate Champions 

Ail-Around Jay Werner, Penn State. 

Free Exercise Ray Hadley, Illinois. 

Horizontal Bar Stan Parshis, Michi- 
gan. 

Parallel Bars Bob Lynn, Southern 
Calif. 

Rope Climb Nelson Hulme, Navy. 

Side Horse Jim Fairchild, California. 

Rebound Tumbling Larry Snyder, 
Iowa. 

Tumbling Al Barasch, Illinois. 



Flying Rings Werner and John 

Aaronson, Army (tie). 
Still Rings Sam Garcia, Southern 

California. 
Team Penn State. 

HANDBALL 

U. S. Handball Association Champions 
FOUR-WALL 

Singles Jim Jacobs, Los Angeles. 
Doubles Jacobs and Dick Weisman, 
Los Angeles. 



Singles Oscar Obert, New York. 
Doubles Oscar and Rudy Obert, New 
York. 

National A.A.U. Champions 

FOUR-WALL 

Singles Jim Jacobs, Los Angeles. 
Doubles John Sloan & Phil Collins, 
Chicago. 



Singles Oscar Obert. 

Doubles Oscar and Rudy Obert. 

HARNESS RACING 
Mile Tracks 

2 -Year-Old Pacer Adios Cleo. 
2-Year-Old Trotter Meadow Fair. 
3-Year-Old Pacer Bullet Hanover. 
3 -Year-Old Trotter Elaine Rodney. 
Older Pacer Adios Butler. 
Older Trotter Senator Frost. 

Half-Mile Tracks 

2 -Year-Old Pacer -Adios Don. 
2 -Year-Old Trotter Orbiter. 
sj-Year-Old Pacer Muncy Hanover 
and Bullet Hanover. 



Champions of 1960 



g-Year-Old Trotter Floral Girl. 
Older Pacer Adios Butler. 
Older Trotter Su Mac Lad. 

Other Champions 

Leading Money-Winner -Bye Bye 

Byrd, pacer. 
Leading Driver Del Insko, Bode, 

Iowa. 
Horse of Year Adios Butler. 

HOCKEY 

Stanley Cup Montreal Canadiens. 

National League Montreal Canadi- 
ens. 

American League Springfield Indians. 

Western League Vancouver Canucks. 

Eastern League Johnstown Jets. 

Allan Cup Chatham (Ont.) Maroons. 

Memorial Cup St. Catharines (Ont.) 
Teepees. 

Intercollegiate 

N.C.A.A. Denver. 

Ivy League Dartmouth. 

HORSESHOE PITCHING 
World Champions 

Men Donald Titcomb, Los Gatos, 
Calif. 

Women Mrs. E. McKee, Royal Cen- 
ter, Ind. 

Junior Harold Brown, Mulberry, Ind. 

HORSE SHOWS 
A. H. S. A. Hight-Point Champions 

Arabian Carol Plouffi Chapman's Sa- 

ref Serik. 

Hackney Pony Dodge Stables' Karen. 
Harness Pony Alice Ruth Woolsey's 

Maverick. 
Green Conformation Hunter J, S. Pet- 

tibone's War Life. 



Conformation Hunter Pettibone's 
The Duke of Paeonian. 

Green Working Hunter J. F. Stew* 
art's Little Fiddle. 

Working Hunter Mrs. H. D. Paxson's 
Flying Curlew. 

Junior Hunter Sara Nan Payne's 
Marianna, 

Hunter Pony Susan W. Burr's Wizard 
of Oz. 

Green Jumper W, R. Ballard's Gift 
o' Gab. 

Open Jumper "Ballard's Windsor Cas- 
tle. 

Morgan Waseeka Farm's Waseeka's 
Nocturne. 

Parade Don Wardle's Ensign's Storm 
Warning. 

Roadster Mrs. L. H. Mayers' and 
Mrs. Lois P. Meade's Senator Play- 
boy. 

sj-Gaited Saddle Sapphire Farm's Dark 
Moon. 

5-Gaited Saddle W. C. Griffin's On 
Guard. 

Fine Harness Sapphire Farm's Melo- 
dic d'Amour. 

Shetland Pony Mrs. Murray Clarke's 
Saddle Acres Hi-Neighbor. 

Tennessee Walking Mrs. H. Fishkin's 
Waltzing Matilda. 

Stock K. E. Rearsnyder's Bahama 
Mama, 

Trail Mrs. Gerald Gray's Polkadot. 

Western Pleasure Wags Gray's Tom- 
boy Sue. 



ICE SKATING 

FIGURE 

World Champions 

Men Alain Giletti, France. 
Women Carol Heiss, United States. 



Champions of 1960 



291 



Pairs Barbara Wagner and Bob Paul, 
Toronto. 

Dance Doreen Denny and J. L. Court- 
ney-Jones, Britain. 

United States Champions 

Men David Jenkins, Colorado 

Springs. 
Women Carol Heiss, Ozone Park, 

Queens. 
Pairs Nancy and Ron Ludington, 

Boston, 
Gold Dance Charles Phillips Jr. and 

Margie Achles, Los Angeles. 

SPEED 

World Champions 

Men Boris Stenin, Soviet Union. 
Women Valentina Stenin, Soviet 
Union. 

United States Champions 

Men's Outdoor Ken Bartholomew, 
Minneapolis. 

Women's Outdoor Mary Novak, Chi- 
cago. 

Men's Indoor Terry McDermott, Es- 
sexville, Mich. 

Women's Indoor Mary Novak. 

North American Champions 

Men's Outdoor Tom Augustitus, De- 
troit 

Women's Outdoor Mary Novak. 

Men's Indoor Steve Stenson, College 
Point, Queens. 

Women's Indoor Jean Ashworth, Wil- 
mington, Mass. 

LACROSSE 

National Open Mt. Washington, Bal- 
timore. 

National Intercollegiate Navy, 
North-South South. 



MODERN PENTATHLON 

World Individual Ferenc Nemeth, 

Hungary. 
World Team Hungary. 

MOTOR BOATING 
Unlimited Hydroplane 

Diamond Cup Stoen and Glan's Miss 
Seattle Too, Coeur d' Alene, Idaho. 

Governor's Trophy Willard Rhodes' 
Miss Thriftway, Seattle. 

International Sweepstakes Joseph 
Schoenith's Gale V, Buffalo. 

Apple Cup Miss Thriftway. 

President's Cup Chuck Thompson's 
Miss Detroit, Washington. 

Detroit Memorial Miss Thriftway. 

Silver Cup Samuel duPont's Nitrogen 
Too, Detroit. 

Martini-Rossi National Trophy Elias 
A. Kahil's Irene K. V. 

Harmsworth Trophy James Thomp- 
son's Miss Supertest III, Picton, Ont. 

Predicted Log 

National Trophy Elias A. Kahil, 

Manhasset. 

Herbert L. Stone Trophy Kahil. 
James Craig Trophy Frank Rupert, 

Pomona, Calif. 
International Trophy (Team) N. Y. 

A. C. 

POLO 

National Outdoor Champions 

Open Oak Brook, Hinsdale, 111. 
ao-Goal Royal Palm, Boca Raton, Fla. 
12 -Goal Tulsa. 
Handicap Milwaukee. 
Intercircuit Tulsa. 

Indoor Champions 

National 12 -Goal (Eastern) Hunting- 
ton. 



2Q2 



Champions of 1960 



National 13 -Goal (Western) Sham- 
rocks. 

National Intercollegiate Yale. 

Sherman Memorial (Eastern) Long 
Island. 

Sherman Memorial (Western) Joy 
Farm Optimists. 

RACQUETS 

National Singles Geoffrey Atkins, New 
York. 

National Doubles Tom Pugh and 
MacDonald Bailey, Britain. 

North American Open Geoffrey At- 
kins. 

ROWING 
United States Champions 

Single Sculls Harry Parker, Vesper 
B. C., Philadelphia. 

Association Single Sculls Wayne Frye, 
Potomac B. C., Washington. 

Double Sculls John B. Kelly Jr. and 
William Knecht, Vesper B. C. 

Quadruple Sculls Undine Barge, 
Phila. 

Pairs With Coxswain Lake Washing- 
ton R. C., Seattle. 

Pairs Without Coxswain Lake Wash- 
ington. 

Eight- Oared Shell Naval Academy. 

Intermediate 8-Oared Vesper B. C. 

i5O-Pound Single Sculls Jim Barker, 
Undine. 

Four- Oared Shell With Coxswain 
Lake Washington. 

Four- Oared Shell Without Coxswain 
Lake Washington. 

TeamVesper Boat Club. 

Intercollegiate Champions 

I.R.A. University of California. 
Eastern Association Cornell. 
Harvard-YaleHarvard. 



Adams Cup Pennsylvania. 
Blackwell Cup Pennsylvania. 
Carnegie Cup Cornell. 
Childs Cup Pennsylvania. 
Compton Cup Harvard. 
Dad Vail Trophy Brown. 
Oxford-CambridgeOxford. 
Eastern Lightweight Harvard. 

SHOOTING 

UNITED STATES CHAMPIONS 

Rifle 

Small-BoreArthur E. Cook, Adelphia, 

Md. 
High Power (Match) Kenneth R. 

Erickson, St. Paul. 
High Power (Service) S/4 James T. 

Lamm, U. S. Army. 
Women's Small-Bore Lenore Jensen, 

Allen Park, Mich. 
Women's High Power (Match) Mira- 

lotte Ickes, Berkeley, Calif. 
Women's High Power (Service) Mrs. 

Sally Sloan, St. Paul. 

Pistol 

National Champion S/ic William B. 

Blankenship Jr., U. S. Army. 
Service Blankenship. 
Women Lucille Chambliss, Winter 

Haven, Fla. 
Police Presley A. O'Gren, U. S. 

Border Patrol, El Paso, Tex. 

Trap 

Grand American Handicap Roy Fox- 
worthy, Indianapolis. 

Women's Grand American Handicap 
Carolyne Elliott, Drexel Hill, Pa. 

North American Clay Targets Joe 
Hiestand, Hillsboro, Ohio. 

Women's North American Clay Tar- 
gets Helen Urban, Mentor, Ohio. 



Champions of 1960 



Skeet 



SOCCER 



All-Around William Hay Rogers, 
Atherton, Calif. 

Women's All-Around Mrs. John B. 
(Katharine) Dinning, Ruxton, Md. 

All-Gauge Peter Candy, Los Angeles. 

Women's All-Gauge Kathleen Mc- 
Ginn, Houston. 

SKIING 

United States Champions 

Jumping Jim Brennan, Leavenworth, 

Wash. 

Downhill Oddvar Ronnesstad, Nor- 
way. 

Slalom Jim Heuga, F. W. S. A. 
Alpine Combined Ronnesstad. 
Giant Slalom Chiharu Igaya, Japan. 
15 -Kilometer Gross-Country Clarence 

Servold, Alberta. 
go-Kilometer Gross-Country Richard 

Taylor, Gilford, N. H. 
Women's Downhill Nancy Greene, 

Canadian Olympic Team. 
Women's Slalom Anne Heggtveit, 

Canada. 
Women's Giant Slalom Anne 

Heggtveit. 
Women's Alpine Combined Elizabeth 

Greene, Canadian Olympic Team. 

National Collegiate Champions 

Jumping Dag Helgestad, Washington 

State. 

Downhill Dave Butts, U. of Colorado. 
Slalom Rudy Ruana, Montana. 
Cross-Country John Dendahl, U. of 

Colorado. 
Alpine Combined Mauritz Sonberg, 

Denver. 

Nordic Combined Dendahl. 
Team Denver. 



National Challenge Cup Ukrainian 
Nationals, Philadelphia. 

National Amateur Cup Kutis, St. 
Louis. 

National Junior Cup St. Paul the 
Apostle, St. Louis. 

American League Colombo S. C., 
Staten Island. 

National Collegiate St. Louis. 

National League Gjoa, New York. 

New Jersey League Elizabeth Ukrain- 
ians. 

New Jersey State Cup Newark S. C. 

English Cup Wolverhampton. 

English League Burnley. 

Scottish Cup Glasgow Rangers. 

Scottish League 1 Hearts of Midlo- 
thian. 

World Cup Brazil. 

Europe Cup Real Madrid, Spain. 

Europe Cup of Nations Soviet Union. 

International League Kilmarnock, 
Scotland (first section); Bangu, Bra- 
zil (second section). Play-off Bangu. 

SOFTBALL 

Amateur Association 

FAST PITCH 

Men Clearwater (Fla.) Bombers, 
Clearwater, Fla. 

Women Raybestos Brakettes, Strat- 
ford, Conn. 

SLOW PITCH 

Open Hamilton Tailoring, Cincin- 
nati. 

Women Carolina Rockets, High 
Point, N. C. 

Industrial Pharr Yarns, McAdenville, 
N. C. 



Champions of ip6o 



SQUASH RACQUETS 

National Champions 

Amateur G. Diehl Mateer Jr., Phila- 
delphia. 

Amateur Doubles J. Whitmoyer and 
H. Davis, Philadelphia and New 
Jersey, 

Open Roshan Khan, Pakistan. 

Junior Ralph Howe, Philadelphia. 

Women's Singles Margaret Varner, 
Wilmington, Del. 

Professional R. Widelski, Hamilton, 
Ont. 

Veterans Cal MacCracken, New York. 

Intercollegiate Steve Vehslage, Prince- 
ton. 

Intercollegiate Team Harvard. 

Gold Racquet Charles Ufford, New 
York. 

SQUASH TENNIS 

National Singles James Prigoff, New 

York. 
National Veterans David G. Smith, 

N. Y. 

SWIMMING 

Men's National Senior Outdoor 
Champions 

ioo-Meter Free-StyleJeff Farrell, New 
Haven S. C. 

200-Meter Free-Style Farrell. 

4OO-Meter Free-Style Alan Somers, In- 
dianapolis A. C. 

1,500-Meter Free-StyleGeorge Breen, 
Indianapolis A. C. 

ioo-Meter Back-StrokeTom Stock, 
Indianapolis A. C. 

200-Meter Back-Stroke T. Stock. 

ioo-Meter Breast-Stroke Chet 
Jastremski, Indianapolis A. C. 

200-Meter Breast-StrokePeter Fogar- 
asy, North Carolina State. 



ioo-Meter Butterfly Lance Larson, 
Los Angeles A, C. 

soo-Meter Butterfly Mike Troy, In- 
dianapolis A. C. 

soo-Meter Individual Medley Ted 
Stickles, San Mateo Marlins. 

4oo-Meter Individual Medley Dennis 
Rounsavelle, Los Angeles A. C. 

4oo-Meter Medley Relay Indianapolis 
A. C. 

Soo-Meter Free-Style Relay Indianap- 
olis A. C. 

3-Meter Dive Sam Hall, WBNS S. C., 
Columbus, Ohio. 

lo-Meter Dive Gary Tobian, Los An- 
geles A. C. 

Team Indianapolis A. C. 

Long Distance Roy Saari, El Segundo 
S. C., California. 

Long Distance Team Los Angeles 
A. C. 

Men's National Senior Indoor 
Champions 

loo-Yard Free-Style Farrell. 
2 20- Yard Free-Style Farrell. 
44O-Yard Free-Style Somers. 
1,500-Meter Free-Style Breen. 
loo-Yard Back-StrokeCharles Bittick, 

Southern California. 
220-Yard Back-Stroke Bittick. 
loo-Yard Butterfly Troy. 
220-Yard Butterfly Troy. 
loo-Yard Breast-Stroke Dick Nelson, 

Ann Arbor, Mich. 
22o-Yard Breast-Stroke William Mul- 

liken, Oxford, Ohio. 
200-Yard Individual Medley John 

McGill, New Haven, S. C. 
400-Yard Individual Medley George 

Harrison, Stanford, Calif. 
400-Yard Free-Style Relay University 

of Southern California. 
400- Yard Medley Relay U. S. C. 



Champions of 1960 



i-Meter Dive Sam Hall. 
3-Meter Dive Jozef Gerlach, Ann Ar- 
bor, Mich. 
Team U. S. C. 

Women's National Outdoor 

Champions 
loo-Meter Free-StyleChris von Saltza, 

Santa Clara S. C. 

2oo-Meter Free-Style Chris von Saltza. 
400-Meter Free-StyleChris von Saltza. 
i,5oo-Meter Free-Style Carolyn House, 

Los Angeles A. C. 
loo-Meter Back-Stroke Lynn Burke, 

Santa Clara S. C. 

200-Meter Back-Stroke Lynn Burke. 
loo-Meter Breast-StrokeAnn Warner, 

Santa Clara S. C. 

20O-Meter Breast-Stroke Ann Warner. 
loo-Meter Butterfly Becky Collins, 

Riviera Club. 

200-Meter Butterfly Becky Collins. 
4OO-Meter Individual Medley Donna 

de Varona, Berkeley Y. M. C. A. 
3-Meter Dive Patsy Willard, Dick 

Smith Swim Gym, 
10-Meter Dive Juno Stover Irwin, Los 

Angeles A. C. 
4oo-Meter Medley Relay Santa Clara 

S. C. 
400-Meter Free-Style Relay Santa 

Clara S. C. 

Team Santa Clara S. C. 
Long Distance Donna Graham, Rivi- 
era Club. 
Long Distance Team Riviera Club. 

Women's National Indoor Champions 
loo-Yard Free-Style Chris von Saltza. 
25o-Yard Free-Style Chris von Saltza. 
5oo-Yard Free-Style Chris von Saltza. 
loo-Yard Backstroke Lynn Burke. 
200- Yard Backstroke Lynn Burke. 
loo-Yard Breast-Stroke Susan Rogers, 
Greenwood Memorial S. C. 



2 50- Yard Breast-Stroke Susan Rogers. 
ico-Yard Butterfly Nancy Ramey, 

Washington A. C. 
200-Yard Butterfly Becky Collins, 

Riviera Club. 
400-Yard Individual MedleySylvia 

Ruuska, Berkeley, Calif, 
i -Meter Dive Patsy Willard, Phoenix, 

Ariz. 
3-Meter Dive Irene MacDonald, Los 

Angeles A. C. 
400- Yard Medley Relay Santa Clara 

S. C. 
40o-Yard Free-Style Relay Multnomah 

A. C. 
Team Santa Clara S. C. 



National Collegiate Champions 

50-Yard Free-Style Bruce Hunter, 

Harvard. 

loo-Yard Free-Style Peter Lusk, Yale. 
22O-Yard Free-Style Tom Winters, 

U. S. C. 
44o-Yard Free-Style Dennis Rounsa- 

velle, U. S. C. 
1,500-Meter Free-Style William Chase, 

Yale. 

loo-Yard Butterfly Mike Troy, Indi- 
ana. 

soo-Yard Butterfly Troy. 
loo-Yard Breast-Stroke Tom Petersen, 

Stanford. 
200-Yard Breast-StrokeRon Clark, 

Mich. 
loo-Yard Back-Stroke C. Bittidc, 

U. S. C. 

200-Yard Back-Stroke Bittick. 
2OO-Yard Individual Medley Lance 

Larson, U. S. C. 
400-Yard Free-Style Relay Southern 

Calif. 

4OO-Yard Medley Relay Indiana, 
i -Meter Dive Sam Hall, Ohio State. 



296 

g-Meter Dive Hall. 

Team Southern California. 

TABLE TENNIS 



United States Champions 

Singles Marty Reisman, New York. 

Women's Singles Sharon Acton, Wil- 
mington, Calif. 

Doubles Dan Vegh and Emery Lip- 
pai, Cleveland. 

Women's Doubles Sharon Acton and 
Valleri Smith, Los Angeles. 

Mixed Doubles Bob Gusikoff, New 
York, and Sharon Acton. 

TENNIS 
Davis Cup Australia to defend against 

Italy. 
Wightman Cup (women) Britain. 

Wimbledon Champions 

Men's Singles Neale Eraser, Australia. 

Women's Singles Maria Bueno, Bra- 
zil. 

Men's Doubles Rafael Osuna, Mexico, 
and Dennis Ralston, Bakersfield, 
Calif. 

Women's Doubles Maria Bueno and 
Darlene Hard, Montebello, Calif. 

Mixed Doubles Darlene Hard and 
Rod Laver, Australia, 

United States Grass Court Champions 

Men's Singles Neale Eraser. 

Women's Singles Darlene Hard. 

Men's Doubles Eraser and Roy Emer- 
son, Australia. 

Women's Doubles Darlene Hard and 
Maria Bueno. 

Mixed Doubles Mrs. Margaret du- 
Pont, Wilmington, Del., and Eraser. 

United States Clay Court Champions 
Men's Singles Barry MacKay, Dayton, 
Ohio. 



Champions of 1960 



Women's Singles Mrs. Dorothy Head 

Knode, Panama City, 
Men's Doubles Bob Hewitt and Marty 

Mulligan, Australia. 
Women's Doubles Darlene Hard and 

Billie Jean Moffit, Long Beach, Calif. 

National Collegiate Champions 
Singles Lawrence Nagler, U. C. L. A. 
Doubles Nagler and Allen Fox, 

U. C. L. A. 
Team U. C. L. A. 

United States Indoor Champions 
Men's Singles Barry MacKay. 
Women's Singles Carole Wright, 

Brooklyn. 
Men's Doubles Andres Gimeno and 

Manuel Santana, Spain. 
Women's Doubles Mrs. Richard A. 

Buck, Manchester, Mass., and Ruth 

Jeffrey, Melrose, Mass. 
Mixed DoublesLois Felix, Meriden, 

Conn., and Dr. Donald Manchester, 

Auburndale, Mass. 

THOROUGHBRED RACING 

Thoroughbred Racing Ass'ns 

Champions 
American Kelso. 
Older Horse Bald Eagle. 
Older Filly or Mare Royal Native. 
3-Year-Old Colt Kelso. 
3-Year-Old Filly Berlo. 
2 -Year-Old Colt Hail to Reason. 
2 -Year-Old Filly Bowl of Flowers. 
Steeplechaser Benguala. 

Other Leaders 

Money-Winning Owner C. V. Whit- 
ney. 

Money- Winning Horse Bald Eagle. 

Trainer (winners saddled) Frank H. 
Merrill Jr. 

Jockey (winners ridden) Bill Hartack. 



Champions of 1960 



297 



TRACK AND FIELD 

Men's National Senior Outdoor 
Champions 

loo-Meter Dash Ray Norton, Santa 
Clara Valley Youth Village. 

goo-Meter Dash Norton. 

40o-Meter Run Otis Davis, Emerald 
A. C. 

8oo-Meter Run Jim Cerveny, South- 
em California Striders. 

1,500-Meter RunJim Grelle, Oregon 
Emerald A. A. 

5 ,000-Meter Run Bill Dellinger, Ore- 
gon Emerald A. A. 

io,ooo-Meter Run Al Lawrence, 
Houston. 

i lo-Meter High Hurdles Hayes Jones, 
Eastern Michigan. 

2oo-Meter Low Hurdles Dick Howard, 
New Mexico. 

40o-Meter Hurdles Glenn Davis, un- 
attached. 

3,000-Meter Steeplechase Phil Cole- 
man, Chicago Track and Field Club. 

3,ooo-Meter Walk Rudy Haluza, U. S. 
Air Force. 

Pole Vault Aubrey Dooley, Okla- 
homa State. 

Hammer Throw Harold Connolly, 
Southern California Striders. 

Javelin Throw Al Cantello, U. S. 
Marines. 

Discus Throw Al Oerter, New York 
A. C. 

High Jump John Thomas, Boston 
A. A. 

Shot-Put Parry O'Brien, Southern 
California Striders. 

Hop, Step and Jump Ira Davis, Phila- 
delphia Pioneer Club. 

Broad Jump Henk Visser, Santa 
Barbara. 

Team Southern California Striders. 



Decathlon Rafer Johnson, Southern 
California Striders. 

Ail-Around Charles Stevenson, New 
York A. C. 

440- Yard Relay Cleveland Striders. 

Mile RelayEast York Track Club. 

2 1,4-Mile Medley Relay New York 
A. C. 

Marathon John J. Kelley, Boston 
A. A. 

3,ooo-Meter Team Race Central Jer- 
sey Track Club. 

One-Hour Run Merle McGee, Santa 
Clara Valley Youth Village. 

i5-Kilometer Run Al Confalone, Bos- 
ton A. A. 

20-Kilometer Run John J. Kelley. 

30-Kilometer Run Peter McArdle, 
New York A. C. 

10-Kilometer Walk Rudy Haluza. 

i5-Kilometer Walk Jack Blackburn, 
Ohio Track Club. 

so-Kilometer Walk Haluza. 

25-Kilometer Walk John Allen, Buf- 
falo. 

go-Kilometer Walk Haluza. 

35-Kilometer Walk Ron Zinn, Army. 

4o-Kilometer Walk Ronald Laird, 
N. Y. Pioneer Club. 

50-Kilometer Walk Laird. 

Men's National Senior Indoor 
Champions 

60- Yard Dash Paul Winder, Morgan 
State. 

60- Yard High Hurdles Hayes Jones, 
Eastern Michigan. 

600- Yard Run Tom Murphy, New 
York A. C. 

i,ooo-Yard Run Gary Weisiger, Duke. 

Mile Run Phil Coleman, U. of Chi- 
cago. 

Three-Mile Run Al Lawrence. 



Champions of 1960 



Mile WalkFrank Sipos, Santa Clara 

Youth Village. 
Pole VaultDon Bragg, Shanahan 

C. C. 

High Jump John Thomas. 
Broad Jump Irvin Roberson, U. S. 

Army, 

Shot-Put Parry O'Brien. 
35 -Pound Weight Throw Harold 

Connolly. 

Mile Relay Villanova. 
Two-Mile Relay New York A. C. 
Sprint Medley Relay Winston-Salem. 

Teachers. 
Team New York A. C. 

National Collegiate Champions 

loo-Meter Dash Charlie Tidwell, 
Kansas. 

soo-Meter Dash Tidwell. 

400-Meter Dash Ted Woods, Colo- 
rado. 

8oo-Meter Run George Kerr, Illinois. 

i,5Oo-Meter Run Dyrol Burleson, 
Oregon. 

5,ooo-Meter Run Al Lawrence, Hous- 
ton. 

no-Meter Hurdles Jim Johnson, 
U. C. L. A. 

4OO-Meter Hurdles Cliff Cushman, 
Kansas. 

3 5 ooo-Meter Steeplechase Charlie 
Clark, San Jose State. 

High Jump John Thomas, Boston U. 

Broad Jump Ralph Boston, Tennes- 
see St. 

Pole Vault J. D. Martin, Oklahoma. 

Hop, Step and Jump Luther Hayes, 
Southern California. 

Shot-Put Dallas Long, Southern Cali- 
fornia. 

Discus Throw Dick Cochran, Mis- 
souri. 



Hammer Throw John Lawlor, Bos- 
ton U. 

Javelin Throw Bill Alley, Kansas. 
Team Kansas. 

Intercollegiate A.A.A.A. Outdoor 
Champions 

loo-Yard Dash Robert Brown, Penn 

State. 

22o-Yard Dash Brown. 
440- Yard Run James Wedderburn, 

N.Y.U. 

88o-Yard Run Tom Carroll, Yale. 
One-Mile Run Richard Engelbrink, 

Penn State. 
Three-Mile Run Robert Lowe, 

Brown. 
120- Yard High Hurdles Leon Praz, 

Villanova. 
440-Yard Hurdles James Moreland, 

Brown. 

3,ooo-Meter Steeplechase Lowe. 
One-Mile Relay Villanova. 
Shot-Put Joe Marchiony, Manhattan. 
Discus Robert Batdorf, Penn, 
Javelin Nick Kovalakides, Maryland. 
Hammer John Lawlor, Boston U. 
High Jump John Thomas, Boston U. 
Pole Vault Barney Berlinger, Penn,' 

Bjorn Anderson and Tom Glass, 

Maryland, and Michael Kleinhans, 

Michigan State (tie). 
Broad Jump Robert Reed, Penn. 
Hop, Step and Jump Winston 

Cooper, St. John's. 
Team Villanova. 

Intercollegiate AA.A.A. Indoor 
Champions 

6o-Yard Dash Frank Budd, Villanova. 
6o-Yard High Hurdles Bill Johnson, 

Maryland. 

600- Yard Run Jim Stack, Yale. 
1,000- Yard Run Tom Carroll, Yale. 



Champions of 1960 



Mile Run Ron Gregory, Notre Dame. 

Two-Mile Run Tom Laris, Dart- 
mouth. 

Mile Relay Villanova. 

Two-Mile Relay Villanova. 

Shot-Put Joe Marchiony, Manhattan. 

Weight Throw John Lawlor, Boston 
U. 

Broad Jump John Buckley, Villanova. 

Pole Vault Tom Reichert, Notre 
Dame, and Bjorn Anderson, Mary- 
land (tie.) 

High Jump John Thomas, Boston U. 

Team -Villanova. 

WEIGHT LIFTING 

National A. A. U. Champions 

Bantamweight Charles Vinci, Ray- 
mond A, C. 

Featherweight Isaac Berger, York Bar 
Bell Club. 

Lightweight Tony Garcy, El Paso, 
Tex. 

Middleweight Tommy Kono, Hawaii, 
York A. C. 

Light Heavyweight James George, 
Akron. 

Middle Heavyweight John Pulskamp, 
Columbus, Ohio. 

Heavyweight James Bradford, Brad- 
ford B. B. C. 

WRESTLING 

National A. A. U. Free-Style 
Champions 

1 14.5 -Pound -Gil Sanchez, Takedown 

Club, La Mar, Colo. 
125 .5 -Pound Carmen Molino, New 

York A. C. 

136.5 -Pound Linn Long, Colorado. 
147.5-Pound Frank Bettuci, New York 

A. C. 



299 

i6o.5-Pound Doug Blubaugh, New 
York A. C. 

174.5-Pound James Ferguson, Michi- 
gan. 

191 -Pound Frank Rosenmayr, Olym- 
pic Club, San Francisco. 

Heavyweight Bill Kerslake, Cleve- 
land. 

Team New York A. C. 

National Collegiate Champions 

ii5-Pound Elliott Simons, Lock 
Haven. 

123-Pound Dave Aubel, Cornell. 

igo-Pound Stanley Abel, Oklahoma. 

137-Pound Les Anderson, Iowa State. 

147-Pound Larry Hayes, Iowa State. 

157-Pound Art Craft, Northwestern. 

i67-Pound Dick Ballinger, Wyoming. 

177-Pound Roy Conrad, Northern 
Illinois. 

191 -Pound George Goodner, Okla- 
homa. 

Heavyweight Dale Lewis, Oklahoma. 

Team Oklahoma. 

YACHTING 
One-Design Classes 

Star (World) Lowell North, San 

Diego, Calif. 
Star (North American) Richard 

Stearns, Wilmette Harbor, 111. 
Snipe (National) Harry Levinson, In- 
dianapolis. 
Raven Timothea Schneider, Oyster 

Bay, L. I. 
International One-Design (World) 

Fred Olsen, Norway. 
Atlantic Briggs S. Cunningham, 

Green's Farms, Conn. 
Penguin Gardner Cox, Mantoloking, 

N.J. 
Highlander Richard Farkas, Perth 

Amboy, N. J. 



goo 



Champions of 1960 



Luders 16 G. Shelby Friedrichs Jr., 

New Orleans. 

ThistleBruce Goldsmith, Racine, Wis. 
110 Albert Fros, San Diego, Calif. 
Jet 14 Calvin Engle, Island Heights, 

N.J. 

210 Morton S. Bromfield, Boston. 
Blue Jay Pete Gonzales, Port Wash- 
ington, L. I. 
5-0-5 Henry Schefter, Mamaroneck, 

N. Y. 

Rebel Clark Lankton, Cincinnati. 
Rhodes Bantam Dick Besse, 

Skaneateles, N. Y. 
Tiger Cat William S. Cox, Darien, 

Conn, 
5.5-Meter Ernest Fay, Houston, 

Texas. 
Comet John MacCausland, Drexel 

Hill, Pa. 
Lightning Carl M. Eichenlaub, San 

Diego, Calif. 
Amphibi-Con Herman Hanson, 

Sharon, Pa. 

North American Y. R. U. Champions 

Men (Mallory Cup) Harry C. Melges 

Jr., Lake Geneva, Wis. 
Women (Adams Trophy) Mrs. John 

(Pat) Duane, Delray Beach, Fla. 
Juniors (Sears Cup) David Miller, 

Royal Vancouver Y. C. 

Distance Races 

Newport to Bermuda Carleton 
Mitchell's yawl Finisterre, Annapolis, 
Md. 

Bermuda to Sweden William T. 
Snaith's yawl Figaro III, George- 
town, Conn. 

Plymouth to New York (single-handed) 
Francis Chichester's cutter, Gipsy 
Moth III, London. 

Southern Ocean Racing Conference 



Thor H. Ramsing's sloop, Solution, 

Greenwich, Conn. 
Chicago-to-Mackinac Island Pohn 

brothers' sloop, Freebooter, Chicago. 
Bayview to Mackinac Island Clarence 

Baker's and Jerry Clements' sloop, 

X-Touche. 
San Diego to Acapulco Howard 

Ahmanson's sloop, Pursuit, Los An- 
geles. 

New York Yacht Club Cruise 

Queen's Cup Henry D. Mercer's 12- 

meter, Weatherly, Rumson, N. J. 
Astor Cup Frederick (Ted) Hood's 

yawl, Robin, Marblehead, Mass. 
Una Cup Charles W. Pingree's yawl, 

Sonora, Marblehead, Mass. 
Corsair Cup Bradley P. Noyes' Tioga, 

Marblehead, Mass. 

Intercollegiate Dinghy Champions 

Morss Trophy Coast Guard Academy 
(William C. Park gd and John A. 
Guestneck). 

Allan Trophy (Individual) R. E. Mar- 
shall, Ohio State. 

BASKETBALL 

Team United States. 

BOXING 

Flyweight Glass Guyle Torok, Hun- 
gary. 

Bantamweight Class Oleg Grigoryev, 
Soviet Union. 

Featherweight Class Francesco Musso, 
Italy. 

Lightweight Class Kazmirierz 
Pazdzior, Poland. 

Light-Welterweight Class Bohumil 
Nomececk, Czechoslovakia. 

Welterweight Class Giovanni Ben- 
venuti, Italy. 



Champions of 1960 



301 



Light-Middleweight Class Wilbert 

McClure, Toledo, Ohio. 
Middleweight Class Eddie Crook, 

Fort Campbell, Ky. 
Light-Heavyweight Class Cassius 

Clay, Louisville. 
Heavyweight Class Francesco de Pic- 

coli, Italy. 

CANOEING 

Men's Events 

i,ooo-Meter Kayak Singles Erik Han- 
sen, Denmark. 

i,ooo-Meter Kayak Doubles Gert 
Fredricsson and Sven Sjodelius, 
Sweden. 

2,ooo-Meter Kayak Relay Germany. 

i,ooo-Meter Canadian Singles Gianos 
Parti, Hungary. 

i,ooo-Meter Canadian Doubles 
Leonid Geyshter and Sergi Marar- 
enko, Soviet Union. 

Women's Events 

500-Meter Kayak Singles Antonina 

Seredina, Soviet Union. 
5oo-Meter Kayak Doubles Maria Shu- 

bina and Antonina Seredina, Soviet 

Union. 

CYCLING 

Individual Road Race Viktor Kapito- 

nov, Soviet Union. 
Team Road Race Italy. 
i,ooo-Meter Time Trial San te Gaior- 

doni, Italy. 
2,ooo-Meter Tandem Giuseppe Be- 

ghetto and Sergio Bianchetto, Italy. 
i,ooo-Meter Scratch Sante Gaiordoni, 

Italy. 
4,ooo-Meter Team Pursuit Italy. 

EQUESTRIAN 
Three-Day Event, Team Australia. 



Three-Day Event, Individual Law- 
rence Morgan, Australia. 

Prix des Nations, Team Germany. 

Individual Jumping Raimond 
d'Inezo, Italy. 

Grand Prix de Dressage Sergei Fila- 
tov, Soviet Union. 

FENCING 
Men's Events 

Individual Foil Viktor Zdanovich, So- 
viet Union. 

Team Foil Soviet Union. 

Individual Epee Giuseppe Delfino, 
Italy. 

Team Epee^Italy. 

Individual Saber Rudolph Karpati, 
Hungary. 

Team Saber Hungary. 

Women's Events 

Individual Foil Adelheid Schmid, 

Germany. 
Team Foil Soviet Union. 

FIELD HOCKEY 

Team Pakistan. 

FIGURE SKATING 

Men David Jenkins, United States. 
Women Carol Heiss, United States. 
Pairs Robert Paul and Barbara Wag- 
ner, Canada. 

GYMNASTICS 
Men's Events 

Team Japan. 

All-Round Individual Boris Shakhlin, 
Soviet Union. 

Free Standing Nobuyuki Aihara, Ja- 
pan. 

Long Horse Vault Takashi Ono, Ja- 
pan, and Boris Shakhlin, Soviet 
Union (tie). 



302 



Champions of 1960 



Parallel Bars Boris Shakhlin, Soviet 
Union. 

Horizontal Bar Takashi Ono, Japan. 

Side (Pommelled) Horse Boris Shakh- 
lin, Soviet Union, and Eugen Ekhan, 
Finland (tie). 

Flying Rings Albert Asarian, Soviet 
Union. 

Women's Events 

Team Soviet Union. 

All-Round Individual Larisa La- 
tynina, Soviet Union. 

Long Horse Vault Margarita Ni- 
kolaeva, Soviet Union. 

Parallel Bars Polina Astakhova, So- 
viet Union. 

Beam Eva Bosakova, Czechoslovakia. 

Free Standing Larisa Latynina, So- 
viet Union. 

ICE HOCKEY 
Team United States. 

MODERN PENTATHLON 

Individual Ferenc Nemeth, Hungary. 
Team Hungary, 

ROWING 

Eight-Oared Germany. 

Fours With Coxswain Germany. 

Fours Without Coxswain United 
States (Art Ayrault, Seattle; Ted 
Nash, Carmel, Calif.; Dick Wailes 
and John Sayre, Seattle.) 

Pairs With CoxswainGermany. 

Pairs Without Coxswain Soviet 
Union. 

Double Sculls Czechoslovakia. 

Single Sculls Vyacheslav Ivanov, So- 
viet Union. 

SHOOTING 

Free Rifle Hubert Hammerer, 
Austria. 



Free Pistol Alexei Gustchin, Soviet 
Union. 

Trapshooting Ion Dumitrescu, Ru- 
mania. 

Small-Bore Rifle (Three Positions) 
Viktor Shamburkin, Soviet Union. 

Small-Bore Rifle (Prone) Peter 
Kohnke, Germany. 

Rapid-Fire Pistol Capt. Bill McMil- 
lan, Turtle Creek, Pa. 

SKIING 
Men's Events 

Slalom Ernst Hinterseer. 

Giant slalom Roger Staub, Switzer- 
land. 

Downhill Jean Vuarnet, France. 

Jumping Helmut Recknagel, Ger- 
many. 

Nordic Combined Georg Thoma, Ger- 
many. 

Biathlon Klas Lestander, Sweden. 

15,000 cross-country Hakon Brusveen, 
Norway. 

30,000 cross-country Six ten Jernberg, 
Sweden. 

50,000 cross-country Kalevi Hamalai- 
nen, Finland. 

40,000 meter cross-country relay Fin- 
land (Alatalo Toimo, Eoro Manty- 
rants, Vaino Huhtala, Voikka Haku- 
linen). 

Women's Events 

Slalom Anne Heggtveit, Canada. 

Giant slalom Yvonne Ruegg, Switzer- 
land. 

Downhill Heidi Bibl, Germany. 

10,000 cross-country Marija Gusa- 
kova, Russia. 

15,000 cross-country relay Sweden 
(Irma Hohansson, Britt Strandberg, 
Son] a Ruthstrom). 



Champions of 1960 



SOCCER 

Team Yugoslavia. 

SPEED SKATING 

Men's Events 

500-meters Eugeny Grishin, Russia. 
1,500 meters Eugeny Grishin, Rus- 
sia and Roald Edgar Aas, Norway. 
5,000 metersViktor Koslchkin, Rus- 
sia. 

10,000 meters Knut Johannesen, Nor- 
way. 

Women's Events 

500 meters Helga Hasse, Germany. 
1,000 meters Klara Guseva, Russia. 
1,500 meters Lidiya Skoblikov, Rus- 
sia. 

3,000 meters Lidiya Skoblikov, Rus- 
sia. 

SWIMMING 
Men's Events 

loo-Meter Free-StyleJohn Devitt, 
Australia, 0:55.2 (Olympic record). 

400-Meter Free-Style Murray Rose, 
Australia, 4:18.3 (Olympic record). 

1,500-Meter Free-StyleJohn Konrads, 
Australia, 17:19.6 (Olympic record). 

loo-Meter Back-StrokeDave Theile, 
Australia, 1:01.9 (Olympic record). 

soo-Meter Butterfly Mike Troy, In- 
dianapolis, 2:12.8 (World record). 

2oo-Meter Breast-stroke Bill Mulli- 
ken, Champaign, 111., 2:37.4. 

400-Meter Medley Relay United 
States (Frank McKinney, Indianapo- 
lis; Paul Hait, San Jose, Calif.; 
Lance Larson, El Monte, Calif.; Jeff 
Farrell, Wichita, Kan.), 4:05.4 (World 
record). 

Soo-Meter Free-Style Relay United 
States (George Harrison, Orinda, 
Calif.; Dick Blick, Bakersfield, Calif.; 



Mike Troy, Indianapolis; Jeff Far- 
rell, Wichita, Kan.), 8:10.2 (World 
record). 

Springboard Dive Gary Tobian, Glen- 
dale, Calif. 

Platform DiveBob Webster, Santa 
Ana, Calif. 

Women's Events 

loo-Meter Free-Style Dawn Fraser, 
Australia, 1:01.2 (Olympic record). 

4oo-Meter Free-Style Chris von 
Saltza, Saratoga, Calif., 4:50.6 
(Olympic record). 

loo-Meter Back-stroke Lynn Burke, 
Flushing, Queens, 1:09.3. 

loo-Meter Butterfly Carolyn Schuler, 
Orinda, Calif., 1:09.5 (Olympic rec- 
ord). 

2OO-Meter Breast-stroke Anita Lons- 
brough, Britain, 2:49.5 (World rec- 
ord). 

4oo-Meter Free-Style Relay United 
States (Joan Spillane, Houston; Shir- 
ley Stobs, Miami; Carolyn Wood, 
Portland, Ore.; Chris von Saltza, 
Saratoga, Calif.), 4:08.9 (World rec- 
ord). 

400-Meter Medley Relay United 
States (Lynn Burke, Flushing, 
Queens; Patty Kempner, Beverley 
Hills, Calif.; Carolyn Schuler, Or- 
inda, Calif.; Chris von Saltza, Sara- 
toga, Calif.), 4:41.1 (World record). 

Springboard Dive Ingrid Kramer, 
Germany. 

Platform Dive Ingrid Kramer, Ger- 
many, 

TRACK AND FIELD 

Men's Events 

loo-Meter Dash Armln Hary, Ger- 
many, 0:10.2 (Equals Olympic rec- 
ord). 



Champions of 1960 



goo-Meter Dash Livio Berruti, Italy, 
0:20.5 (Olympic record; equals world 
record around curve). 

4oo-Meter Dash Otis Davis, Los An- 
geles, 0:44.9 (World record). 

8oo-Meter RunPeter Snell, New Zea- 
land, 1:46.3 (Olympic record). 

1,500- Meter Run Herb Elliott, Aus- 
tralia, 3:35.6 .(World record). 

5,000- Meter Run Murray Halberg, 
New Zealand, 13:434. 

io,ooo-Meter Run Pyotr Bolotnikov, 
Soviet Union, 28:32.2 (Olympic rec- 
ord). 

Marathon Abebe Bikila, Ethiopia, 
2:15:15.2. 

no-Meter High Hurdles Lee Cal- 
houn, Gary, Ind., 0:13.8. 

400-Meter Hurdles Glenn Davis, Co- 
lumbus, Ohio, 0:49.3 (Olympic rec- 
ord). 

3,ooo-Meter Steeplechase Zdzislaw 
Krzyszkowiak, Poland, 8:32,4 (Olym- 
pic record). 

2O,ooo-Meter Walk Vladimir Golub- 
nichy, Soviet Union, 1:34:07.2. 

50,ooo-Meter Walk Donald Thomp- 
son, Britain, 4:25:30 (Olympic rec- 
ord). 

Decathlon Rafer Johnson, Kingsburg, 
Calif., 8,392 points (Olympic record). 

40o-Meter Relay Germany, 0:39.5 
(Equals world record). 

i,6oo-Meter Relay United States, 
(Jack Yerman, Woodland, Calif.; 
Earl Young, San Fernando, Calif.; 
Glenn Davis, Columbus, Ohio; Otis 
Davis, Los Angeles), 3:02.2 (World 
record). 

High Jump Robert Shavlakadze, So- 
viet Union, 7 feet i inch (Olympic 
record). 

Broad Jump Ralph Boston, Laurel, 



Miss., 26 feet 734 inches (Olympic 

record). 
Hop, Step and Jump Jozef Schmidt, 

Poland, 55 feet 13,4 inches (Olympic 

record). 
Pole Vault Don Bragg, Pennsville, 

N. J., 15 feet 51^ inches (Olympic 

record). 
Shot-Put Bill Nieder, San Francisco, 

64 feet 63,4 inches (Olympic record). 
Discus Throw Al Oerter, West Baby- 
lon, L. I. 194 feet 2 inches (Olympic 

record). 
Hammer Throw Vasily Rudenkov, 

Soviet Union, 220 feet 2 inches 

(Olympic record). 
Javelin Throw Viktor Tsibulenko, 

Soviet Union, 277 feet 8s/ inches. 

Women's Events 

loo-Meter Dash Wilma Rudolph, 

Clarksville, Tenn., 0:11. 
200-Meter Dash Wilma Rudolph, 

Clarksville, Tenn., 0:24. 
8o-Meter Hurdles Irina Press, Soviet 

Union, 0:10.8. 
8oo-Meter Run Mme. Ludmila Shev- 

cova, Soviet Union, 2:04.3 (Equals 

world record). 
Shot-Put Tamara Press, Soviet Union, 

56 feet g% inches (Olympic record). 
Discus Throw Mme. Nina Ponoma- 

reva, Soviet Union, 180 feet 814 

inches (Olympic record). 
Javelin Throw Elvira Ozolina, Soviet 

Union, 183 feet 8 inches (Olympic 

record). 
High Jump Yolanda Balas, Rumania, 

6 feet s^ inch (Olympic record). 
Broad Jump Vera Krepkina, Soviet 

Union, 20 feet 10% inches (Olympic 

record). 

40o-Meter Relay United States (Mar- 
tha Hudson, McRue, Ga.; Lucinda 



Champions of 1960 



Williams and Barbara Jones, Nash- 
ville, Tenn.; Wilma Rudolph, 
Clarksville, Tenn.), 0:44.5. 

WATER POLO 
Team Italy. 

WEIGHT LIFTING 

Bantamweight Class Charles Vinci, 

Cleveland, 7601^ pounds (Equals 

world record). 
Featherweight class Yevgeni Minaev, 

Soviet Union, 821 pounds (Equals 

world record). 
Lightweight Class Viktor Bushuev, 

Soviet Union, 876 pounds (World 

record). 
Middleweight Class Alexander Kury- 

nov, Soviet Union, 96414 pounds 

(World record). 
Light-Heavyweight Class Ireneusz Pa- 

linski, Poland, 9751/2 pounds. 
Middle-Heavyweight Class Arkadi Vo- 

robiev, Soviet Union, 1,0391^ pounds 

(World record). 

Heavyweight Class Yuri Vlasov, So- 
viet Union, 1,1821^ pounds (World 

record). 

WRESTLING 

Free-Style 

Flyweight Class Ahmet Bilek, Tur- 
key. 

Bantamweight Class Terry McCann, 
Tulsa. 

Featherweight Class Mustafa Dagis- 
tanli, Turkey. 

Lightweight Class Shelby Wilson, 
Ponca City, Okla. 



Welterweight Class Doug Blubaugh, 

Ponca City, Okla. 
Middleweight ClassHasan Gungor, 

Turkey. 
Light-Heavyweight Class Ismet Atli, 

Turkey. 
Heavyweight Class Wilfried Dietrich, 

Germany. 

Greco-Roman 

Flyweight Class Dumitru Pirvulescu, 

Rumania. 
Bantamweight Class Oleg Karavaev, 

Soviet Union. 
Featherweight Class Muzahir Sille, 

Turkey. 
Lightweight Class Avtandil Koridze, 

Soviet Union. 
Welterweight Class Mithat Bayrak, 

Turkey. 
Middleweight Class Dimitrio Dobrev, 

Bulgaria. 
Light-Heavyweight Class Teufik Kis, 

Turkey. 

Heavyweight Class Ivan Bogdan, So- 
viet Union. 

YACHTING 

5.5-Meter Class George O'Day, Dover, 

Mass. 
Dragon Class Crown Prince Constan- 

tine, Greece. 
Star Class Timir Pinegin, Soviet 

Union. 
Flying Dutchman Class Peder Lunde 

Jr., Norway. 
Finn Monotype Class Paul Elstrom, 

Denmark. 



WHO'S WHO IN BEST SPORTS STORIES 1961 



THE PRIZE-WINNERS 

JIMMY BRESLIN (Racing's Angriest Young Man), winner o the 
magazine story award, is currently a free-lance writer after stints 
with the Long Island Press, the Boston Globe, Newspaper Enter- 
prise Association, and the New York Journal- American. On the 
sunny side of thirty, he was born in New York City Richmond 
Hill. His work has appeared in most of the better magazines of the 
country. 

BILL CLARK (It Ended in Silence), winner of the news-feature 
prize, is a 1953 graduate of Syracuse University, twenty-nine years 
old and single. He began his newspaper work as a high-school sports 
correspondent for the Geneva (N. Y.) Times and in 1956 joined the 
sports department of the Syracuse Herald- American, where his prize- 
winning story appeared. He was a first-prize winner in the 1958 news 
division contest of Bowling Magazine and he has also written for 
Sports Illustrated, Time and UPI. This is his first appearance in this 
anthology. 

DICK YOUNG (It Isn't Over Yet), winner of the news-coverage 
award, has been a frequent contributor to these pages and has won 
a prize in all three categories of the "Best Sports Stories" anthology. 
This is his second victory in the coverage class. A native New Yorker, 
he has covered all sports for the New York Daily News, where he is 
currently employed, but baseball has been his specialty. And before 
they moved West, it was the Dodgers who occupied most of his at- 
tention. His work also has appeared in major magazines. 



OTHER CONTRIBUTORS 

(In Alphabetical Order) 

JESSE ABRAMSON (The Best Bet that Lost) is a top track and box- 
ing reporter who has won "Best Sports Stories" awards four and a 



308 Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 

half times (he tied once) in the news-coverage area of this book. He 
has written sports for the New York Herald Tribune for over thirty 
years and his excellent reportage has merited inclusion in every 
one of these volumes seventeen in all. Resides in Mt. Vemon, 
N. Y. and baby-sits for his grandchild. 

BOB ADDIE (The Sounds of Sport) has been covering the sport 
picture in our nation's capital with the Washington Post and Times- 
Herald. One of the oddities in his career was the fact that he has 
had one of his columns reprinted in its entirety in the Congressional 
Record. Originally broke in as a writer with Manhattan newspapers. 
He was a captain in the United States Air Force. Married to Pauline 
Betz, a four-time national and Wimbledon tennis champion. 

JIM ATWATER (For Love & Money) has been with Time since his 
graduation from Yale in 1950. He started his news career with the 
Springfield (Mass.) Union at sixteen. He also worked out of Wash- 
ington and Detroit as a newsman. He became the sports editor of 
Time in '58. Married and the father of three children. 

BOB BARNET ("Get- Well" Horses) is the sports editor of the Muncie 
Star in Indiana. He has been with the same paper since his gradua- 
tion from high school. At Ball State Teachers College, where he re- 
ceived his education, he was a trackman. Served as president of the 
Indiana Sportswriters and Radio Broadcasters Association; co- 
authored a book on basketball techniques and has appeared in this 
anthology a number of times. 

EDWIN M. BARTON ("The Bay Sing Sing Licked Us") is a native 
Southerner, born in Georgia, and educated as a clergyman. Much of 
his career has been interpersed with writing. He served briefly as 
assistant sports editor of the Durham (N. C.) Sun, was a sports writer 
for the Chattanooga Press and sports publicity director for the Uni- 
versity of Chattanooga. Since 1955 ne nas been director of student 
activities at Columbia's College of Physicians and Surgeons. He is 
currently working on a novel. 

FURMAN BISHER (The Many Moods of Mauch) is one of the out- 
standing writers in the South. Born in Denton, North Carolina, he 
became the sports editor of the Atlanta Journal, succeeding another 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 309 

outstanding newspaper man, Ed Danforth. He originally associated 
himself with the Constitution in '50. Forty-two years of age, he has 
held the presidency of the Football Writers of America. 

ROYAL BROUGHAM (They Can Come Back), the dean of the West- 
ern writers with a half century of service, is sports editor of the 
Seattle Post-Intelligencer. He has covered most of the big sport 
stories, with over a half-million miles racked up on news assign- 
ments. He conducts the "Morning After" column for his paper. This 
is his first appearance in this anthology of sport stories. 

BILL BRYSON (Mazeroski Finishes It) is presently with the Des 
Moines Register and Tribune. His last appearance in this continuing 
anthology was in '52. He has worked for the same paper for twenty- 
three years. His tremendous knowledge of baseball lore and history 
has been the inspiration of many magazine articles, a few record 
books and a historical dictionary of baseball terms. His co-author 
on the latter volume was Dr. E. J. Nichols, of Pennsylvania State 
University. 

Si BURICK (Three American Flags Went Up) decided that a sports 
desk was more exciting than the consultation desk of a physician. 
His pre-med education was therefore abandoned after graduation 
from Dayton University and he started writing for the Dayton News, 
where he at present is the sports editor. Mr. Burick is a splendid 
observer of the sporting scene and he has regaled his readers for 
many years with his exciting column "Si-ings." 

BOB COLE (The Methuselah of Bowling) is only twenty-four and 
has been with the Winston-Salem (N. C.) Journal-Sentinel for two 
years. This is his first appearance in Best Sports Stories. Born in 
Beaver, West Virginia, he is a graduate of Marshall College and 
while attending Marshall worked for a year and a half with the 
Huntington Herald-Dispatch. Married and father of a baby girl. 

DAVID CONDON (My Kind a' Guy) is a graduate of Notre Dame 
University who joined the staff of the Chicago Tribune in '44. His 
excellent column "In The Wake of the News" is widely read and ap- 
preciated. He was born in Las Vegas, New Mexico. 



gio Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 

MYRON COPE (Unpredictable Ail-American) is a native of Pitts- 
burgh. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, he began his 
newspaper career with the Erie (Pa.) Times and after several months 
of reporting moved to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and has been 
there ever since. He has been doing some free lancing in the last 
four years and has been printed by the better magazines of our 
country. 

GENE CUNEO (Golf Magic) is a newcomer to these volumes. At 
thirty-four, he is the sports editor of the Erie (Pa.) Times and Sun- 
day Times-News. He is married and the father of four children. Cur- 
rent president of the National Association of Baseball Writers, he 
has received eight awards, including two first places in competition 
fostered by Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers. He covers all 
phases of the sporting activity. 

ARTHUR DALEY (A Sad Day for Baseball) was a splendid athlete 
at Fordham College and also wrote sports for his school paper, The 
Fordham Ram. In 1926 he went to work for the New York Times 
and his column "Sports of the Times" has gained him an enviable 
reputation as a writer, winning him the Pulitzer Prize. He is the co- 
author of a history of the Olympics and the author of "Times at 
Bat/' an informal history of baseball's first half-century, and of 
"Sports of the Times," a collection of his outstanding columns. 

ALLISON DANZIG (Barefoot Boy) of the New York Times is a well 
known author and sports reporter. He was born in Waco, Texas, 
matriculated at Cornell and in 1950 won the news-coverage award 
in "Best Sports Stories." As an author he has done many books on 
tennis, baseball and football. His latest are "History of Football," 
generally acknowledged to be the definitive volume on the subject, 
and "History of Baseball" with Joe Reichler. 

MELVIN DURSLAG (Frantic Taskmaster of Tennis) has been with 
the Los Angeles Examiner for over twenty years. He was born in 
Chicago, graduated from the University of Southern California and 
entered the Air Force. After the war he returned to the Examiner, 
got married, raised a fine family and now supports it by his varied 
and excellent fee-lance writings for magazines. 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 311 

NELSON FISHER (Bargain Baby) is fifty-one years o age and in 
his many years of news reporting he has regaled his readers on a 
wide variety o subjects. His Kentucky Derby articles are gems of the 
trade. He composes a daily full-time column and lays claim to the fact 
that as a selector he picked twelve out of fifteen at Caliente one 
Labor Bay. Originally with the San Diego Sun and now working 
for the Union in the same city. 

STANLEY FRANK (Boss of the Yankees) is a prolific writer who will 
tackle any subject that lends itself to the interesting treatment that 
he can bring to it. Broke in with, the New York Post and shortly 
after he began to free lance. His articles have been printed in every 
first-class magazine in this country. 

CURLEY GRIEVE (It's All Square Again) writes a sports column en- 
titled "Sports Parade" with which he has attracted a large reading 
public. He works for the San Francisco Examiner. His college is 
Utah, '24. Broke into newspapering with the Salt Lake City Trib- 
une, and later went to the Rocky Mountain News. 

RAY HAYWOOD (The Breed Called "Mutt") entered the "Best 
Sports Stories" series in '59. Since that time his entries have merited 
an inclusion in each subequent volume. He is a most provocative and 
literate writer who was graduated from the University of California 
in '37 as an English major. Upon his graduation he became a court 
reporter and later joined the Oakland (Cal.) Tribune, where he now 
works. 

W. C. HEINZ (The Floyd Patterson I Know) has won the judge's 
nod in "Best Sports Stories" four and a half times. He took first 
place with his magazine pieces in '48, '50, '54 and '59. In '52 he 
shared the award. This fine writer is a New Englander, residing in 
Connecticut. Did some newspaper writing for the New York Sun, 
and later turned to Free lancing. His novel, "The Professional," 
won high praise from the critics. 

BOB HUNTER (It's a Brand New Series) has generated excitement 
in the sports writing department of his paper, the Los Angeles Ex- 
aminer, for more than a quarter of a century. His remarks have a 



gi2 Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 

youthfulness and zest that belie an old vet, and his baseball obser- 
vations particularly have made him a host of readers. Attended 
the University of California and conducts a column, "Bobbin* 
Around." 

STAN ISAACS (There Once Was a Tennis Player) is a young writer 
on Newsday. He is a versatile scribe and tackles any sport subject. 
His fine sense of humor, his satiric thrusts and exciting descriptions 
have merited him two inclusions in two attempts in "Best Sports 
Stories." Married, father of two children and a graduate of Brooklyn 
College. 

JERRY IZENBERG (Underneath the Table) is thirty years old and 
makes his first appearance in this series. He has worked in the sports 
departments of the Newark Star-Ledger, Patterson (N.J.) Evening 
News and Pacific Stars and Stripes in Tokyo. At present he is on the 
sports desk at the New York Herald Tribune and is the secretary 
of the Metropolitan Basketball Writers' Association. 

DAN JENKINS (A Look at a Footballer) lends his name to a section 
that is producing a number of fine sports writers, the Southwest. He 
began his newspaper career about thirteen years ago and although 
barely turned thirty, he at present is the sports editor of the Fort 
Worth Press. He has won awards for his fine reporting that include 
a first place in the National Golf Writers Association Contest. He is 
a graduate of Texas Christian. 

ROGER KAHN (Football's Taking Over) won the magazine award 
that this series offers in '60. At one time he was associated with the 
New York Herald Tribune and Sports Illustrated. He later became 
the sports editor of Newsweek. He has contributed sports articles to 
a variety of magazines, ranging from the Saturday Evening Post to 
the American Scholar. He is in his thirties. 

RALPH KNIGHT (Winter's Wildest Sport) is now retired after having 
served as associate editor of the Saturday Evening Post, where this 
story appeared, since 1944. Before that he was sports editor and edi- 
itor of the Glens Fall (N.Y.) Post-Star after his graduation from Un- 
ion College and Columbia School of Journalism. On the Post he 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 313 

wrote fiction, articles, and humor essays, also the "Keeping Posted" 
feature. Occupation in retirement: writing, 

HAL LEBOVITZ (Let the Kids Play) holds a master's degree in chem- 
istry and regales his Cleveland readers with some of the more color- 
ful prose of that area. He was graduated from Western Reserve 
University and for awhile taught high school and coached athletic 
teams. He left academic life for the sports desk when the Cleveland 
Plain Dealer offered him a job. 

BILL LEISER'S (From the Ivory Tower) sports writings have been 
warmly received for over twenty-five years on the West Coast, where 
he writes for the San Francisco Chronicle. He was born in Kansas, 
attended schools in Wisconsin and Idaho and matriculated at Stan- 
ford in California. He joined the Examiner in '34. He is the past 
president of the San Francisco Press Club and also headed the Foot- 
ball Writers of America. 

GEORGE LEONARD (Bombshell in Baltimore) joined the Nashville 
Banner shortly after his graduation from the University of Alabama 
in '36. He has been on the sports desk of that paper for nineteen 
years. At present, he is the president of the Southern Association of 
Baseball Writers and has served as Southern Association correspond- 
ent for the Sporting News since '47. He coaches a Little League 
team in Nashville and three of his four sons play on it. Proudest mo- 
ment when the team was the runnerup for the city title. 

TEX MAULE (The Most Exciting Five Minutes) was born in Flor- 
ida, raised in Texas and now lives on Long Island Port Washing- 
ton. He has held many jobs, from a trapeze performer to publicity 
man for the Los Angeles Rams. For three years he was at the sports 
desk of the Dallas Morning News, then came East to join Sports 
Illustrated for which he now covers football and track. He is a novel- 
ist, and his story "J erem y>" published last year, got splendid notices. 

ANDY McCuTCHEON (Journey to Jersey City) is thirty-three years 
of age and was born in West Virginia. He received his education 
at the University of Tennessee, and after a tour of duty with the 
United States Navy he transferred to Washington and Lee, where 



314 Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 

he played varsity football and graduated in '48 cum laude (journal- 
ism major). Went to work for the Richmond News Leader as a sports 
writer and remained there until 1960, when he joined the staff of 
Congressman J. Vaughn Gary. 

MORTON Moss (From Nowhere to Nowhere) is a transplanted 
Easterner who went to the West Coast after his graduation from 
Columbia University. He broke in with the New York Evening Post, 
and Damon Runyan was impressed enough with his writings to rec- 
ommend his employment by the International News Service. In '41, 
he went to the Los Angeles Examiner, where he writes on all phases 
of sports. 

EDDIE MULLER (Dandy and Bully-boy Draw) is another example 
of the fine staff of writers who grace the sports desk of the San Fran- 
cisco Examiner. He has been with that paper for thirty-seven years, 
which would make him one of the fine old or young vets of this 
book. The California Boxing Commission has high esteem for Mr. 
Muller and they recently awarded him a plaque for contributing 
the most to boxing over a period of years. 

JERRY NASON (Story-Book Finish) is one of the better sports re- 
porters on the East Coast. He has merited many inclusions in "Best 
Sports Stories" and in '45 he won the news coverage prize that this 
anthology offers. Originally a sports cartoonist, he later went to the 
Boston Globe and became its sports editor. That was twenty years 
ago, 1941. 

JACK O'CONNOR (The Mule Deer) has been a newspaperman, nov- 
elist and journalism instructor since his graduation from the Uni- 
versity of Missouri. At the age of seven, he had a 2O-gauge rifle and 
has hunted constantly since then, throughout the world. He is in- 
timately acquainted with every firearm of the last 100 years and has 
written three volumes on rifles and hunting. He is fifty-nine years 
old and lives in Idaho. 

BILL ROBINSON (Man Overboard!) is forty-one years of age and 
has been sailing for most of those years, starting at Nantucket. He 
is now an associate editor of Yachting. Before that, he was the boat 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 315 

editor of the Newark Star-Ledger and the Newark News. He has also 
reported football for his papers. He was graduated from Princeton 
and lives with his wife and three children in Rumson, New Jersey. 

DICK SCHAAP (The Fox Who Plays Like a Wolf) is the sports edi- 
tor of Newsweek Magazine. He is only twenty-six years old. Attended 
Cornell, editor of Cornell Daily Sun, goalie on the lacrosse team, 
married and the father of a little girl. He is a recipient of the Rice 
Memorial Fellowship in journalism and obtained his masters degree 
from Columbia University School of Journalism. 

DON SELBY (Date with Destiny) has been with the San Francisco 
Examiner since 1945. Although he usually covers the football scene, 
he is at home in golf, hockey or any other athletic area that needs a 
colorful touch. He is a graduate of Stanford and flew for the United 
States Naval Forces. 

LEONARD SHEGTER (Schmeling the Unreal) is a thirty-five-year- 
old New Yorker who joined the sports staff of the New York Post 
as a copy boy sixteen years ago. He worked in all parts of the paper, 
became night sports editor for awhile, and then, in '57, went to 
general sports assignments. Married, no children, lives in downtown 
Manhattan in a building with a fine view of the city. 

JOSEPH M. SHEEHAN (The Eagles Fly Back) has been a member of 
the staff of The New York Times since 1937. Before that he was 
campus correspondent at Manhattan College, of which he is a gradu- 
ate, class of 1933. He also did sports publicity at Manhattan for 
ten years. He has done considerable free-lance writing and editing 
and has covered all sports for the Times. 

BLACKIE SHEJRJR.OD (Old Buster in Ivyland) has been tickling the 
risibles of his many readers in Dallas for some time now. He is the 
editor of the Times Herald in D'allas. His activities as a writer have 
carried him into all phases of the newspaper field. Acknowledged 
one of the better writers of the Southwest, he has been president of 
the Texas Sportswriters Association and the Texas League Baseball 
Writers Association. 



316 Who's Who in Best Sports 

WALTER W. (RED) SMITH (His Last Bow?) is a three-time winner 
of the prizes that this anthology offers. As a writer and a lecturer 
he is known throughout the country for his keen perception of the 
sports scene. Newspapers in Philadelphia, St. Louis and Milwaukee 
have utilized his services. At present he is a syndicated columnist of 
the New York Herald Tribune, Two books containing his writings 
have been published and have received glowing tributes from the 
critics. 

MAXWELL STILES (Lightning Strikes Twice) won first prize in this 
anthology in '49 with a story called "Ghost of Wembley." Born in 
Santa Monica, California he attended the University of Southern 
California and Stanford. He has worked for the Los Angeles Ex- 
aminer, Oakland Tribune, Long Beach Press Telegram and is now 
at the Los Angeles Mirror. He is the author of three books, "The 
Rose Bowl," "Football's Finest Hour," and "Back Track." He 
specializes in football, golf and track, but he has covered every other 
sport. 

AL STUMP (Headhunter with a Horsehide) has been regaling 
readers throughout the country for years with his fine writing. His 
free-lance articles appear in all the better magazines. He got his 
education at the University of Washington and later joined the staff 
of the Portland Oregonian. Reported the Rose Bowl game when he 
was a teen-ager for his home town newspaper. He now resides in 
Santa Barbara, California. 

WELLS A. TWOMBLY (From Riches to Rags) is twenty-six years 
old and a graduate of the University of Connecticut, class of '56. 
Broke in with the Willimantic Daily Chronicle (Conn.) and then 
joined up with the Independent and Star News in Pasadena. At 
present he is with the Valley Times Today in North Hollywood 
(Cal.) where he handles all the makeup and covers the Dodgers and 
Angels at home. During the basketball season he writes about the 
antics of the Lakers and does occasional reporting of other sports. 
Married, professes to pampering his only child and is making his 
first appearance in "Best Sports Stories." 

STANLEY WOODWARD (The 1960 All-America) is becoming the dean 
of American sports writers. His splendid coverage and feature writ- 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 317 

ing have made him one of the top sports reporters of our time and 
he has twice won the prize that this anthology offers. Edits the Dell 
football annual and has written a book on sports reporting. At 
present he is the sports editor of the New York Herald Tribune. 



THE PHOTO WINNERS 

PAUL CONNELL, the photographer who won first prize in the sports 
action category with his shot, "Basket Hanger," is forty-two years of 
age and has been working for the Boston Globe for nineteen years. 
During this time he has won over fifty awards in various classes in 
the Boston Press Photographers Association annual photo contests. 
He was selected as News Photographer of the Year in 1959 and also 
in '60 in Region I (New England) of the National Press Photogra- 
phers Association. Married and the father of two children. 

ED CLARITY, the winner of this year's photography prize in the 
feature division, has been a staff photographer for the New York 
Daily News for fourteen years. He has garnered in that time over 
sixty prizes in all fields of photography, although feature shots 
seem to be his forte. Ed gives a course in press photography at the 
New York Institute of Photography in New York City. His biggest 
moment occurred when he was part of a News team that won the 
Pulitzer Prize in '56. 



Who's Who in Best Sports Stories 1961 



3*9 



PHOTOGRAPHERS OF 26 OF THE YEAR'S BEST PICTURES 



Paul J. Connell 
Ed Clarity 
Herb Scharfman 
Roy Miller 
Art Ghernechi 
Niels Lauritzen 
Barney Stein 
Charles Hoff 
Charles Heckman 
Thomas F. Kinahan 
Sam Mikulin 
Tony Cordaro 
Ryan Sanders 
Frank Berger 
Bob Flora 
Martin Blumenthal 
Gil Friedberg 
Larry Day 
Edward T. Adams 
George Miller 
Ken Ross 
Larry Sharkey 
Joel Schrank 
Thomas L. Shafer 
Herbert Ludford 
Bob Doty 



Boston Globe 

New York Daily News 

Sports Illustrated 

United Press International 

United Press International 

Milwaukee Journal 

New York Post 

New York Daily News 

United Press International 

Chicago's American 

United Press International 

Des Moines Register and Tribune 

Dayton Daily News 

Chicago's American 

United Press International 

Sport Magazine 

Boston Globe 

Des Moines Register and Tribune 

Philadelphia Bulletin 

New York Journal-American 

Memph is Press-Scim itar 

Los Angeles Times 

United Press International 

United Press International 

United Press International 

Dayton Journal Herald 




Left. Basket Hanger by Paul J. Con- 
nell, Boston Globe. When the judges 
were looking for an exciting moment 
captured by a photographer, it was this 
picture that made the deepest impres- 
sion. Shown are two great basketball 
teams, the St. Louis Hawks and the Bos- 
ton Celtics in a playoff game. Hanging 
onto the basket is Tom Heinsohn of the 
Celtics. He just refused to become earth- 
bound again after working on a rebound. 
All about him are the players com- 
pletely unconcerned with his lofty posi- 
tion. Mr. Council's shot was deemed best 
action picture in this year's competition. 
I960, The Boston Globe. Below. 
Opening Day by Ed Clarity, New York 
Daily News. This mirth-provoking pic- 
ture won the judge's nod for best feature 
shot in the photo competition. It has 
everything, including the pencil stuck 
behind the ear for recording the win- 
ning choices, the look of complete con- 
tentment of a man who knows what he's 
doing, the smell of spring that heralds a 
new racing season, and of course the one 
item that" provides the picture with a 
flavoring of the Greek Theater, that 
ironic hole in the sole. I960, The New 
York Daily News 




321 



Right. The Mighty Casey 
Goes Out by Herb Scharf- 
man for Sports Illustrated. 
The Series is over. The 
Yankees have lost. Casey 
Stengel makes his exit. And 
right behind him is Ralph 
Terry, walking with head 
down as Pirate fans cele- 
brate. I960, Sports Illus- 
trated Magazine. Below. 
Reception at Home by Roy 
Miller, United Press Inter- 
national. Probably the big- 
gest moment of sport in the 
history of Pittsburgh and 
certainly of the runner, Bill 
Mazeroski, is detailed here 
after his home run in the 
seventh game of the World 
Series against the New 
York Yankees. It was this 
homer that wrapped up the 
series and caused a near 
riot in Forbes Field. Coach 
Oceak is No. 44. I960, 
United Press International, 
Inc. 





322 




Above. An Umpire's Calling 
by Art Chernechi, United 
Press International. Umpire 
Larry Napp gives it his all as 
he calls play at second base 
for benefit of Washington 
player Billy Gardner. Nearly 
hidden in the dust is Tiger 
Neil Chrisley who advanced 
from first after Al Kaline had 
flied to left. Senators won, 
3-0. I960, United Press In- 
ternational, Inc. Right. Pi- 
rate Dance by Niels Laurit- 
zen, The Milwaukee Journal. 
A Pittsburgh Pirate is here de- 
picted in a desperate lunge 
to escape a close pitch that 
has already settled in the mitt 
of a Milwaukee catcher. 
I960, The Milwaukee Journal 




323 




The Last Big Hit by Barney Stein, The New York Post. This shot 
shows a young Dodger fan about to hit the huge iron ball painted in 
the form of a baseball that is to demolish the famous landmark (Eb- 
bets Field) to make way for an apartment-house project, (c) 1960, The 
New York Post Corp. J V 



324 




Above. Queer Street, Next Stop! by Charles Hoff, The New York 
Daily News. This knockdown is the beginning of the end for Ingemar 
Johansson. Another knockdown, and the final one, occurred a few 
seconds later and returned the heavyweight title to the former title- 
holder Floyd Patterson. I960, The New York Daily News. Below. 
Rocking Charity by Charles Heckman, United Press International. 
In this fight for the benefit of charity in Los Angeles, Cisco Andrade 
has just knocked down Battling Torres in the seventh round of a 
scheduled ten-rounder. I960, United Press International, Inc. 




325 



Right. Bid Foiled by Thomas 
F. Kinahan, Chicago's American. 
Shown here are two Chicago 
high-school players, William 
White of Hirsch, and Richard 
Carlson of Kelvyn Park. White 
on the left almost had the pass 
that Carlson knocked down. 
Hirsch won 37-0. I960, Chi- 
cago's American. Below. Ail is 
Glum, Chuin by Sam Mikulin, 
United Press International. It 
would take more than a program 
to identify this trio of dejected 
San Francisco 49ers during their 
game with the Green Bay Pack- 
ers, who won 13-0. Other than 
that they are sitting on the 49ers 
bench and looking more like 
fugitives from a mud bath, these 
players must remain unidenti- 
fied. I960, United Press Inter- 
national, Inc. 





326 




Above. Here Comes Ferguson by Tony Cordaro, Des Moines Reg- 
ister and Tribune. Iowa's Larry Ferguson rambles across the 50-yard 
line with Oregon State end Leon Criner in close pursuit. Note Coach 
Forest Evashevski yelling on the sidelines and the Iowa cheerleaders 
who have run out on the field. I960, Des Moines Register and 
Tribune. Below. Man With a Block by Ryan Sanders, Dayton Daily 
News. When Mike Ingram of Ohio State essayed this lunge to block a 
punt by Indiana, the photographer came away with this beauty. 
1960 f Dayton Daily News 




327 



. - i- 




Mercy Me! by Frank Berger, Chicago's American. As the ball eludes 
this high school player of Chicago's North High School, he seems to be 
caught in a gesture more in keeping with the theater than the grid- 
iron. I960., Chicago's American 



328 




Above. Uncomplimentary Closing by Bob Flora, United Press Inter- 
national. This scene represents anything but a basketball game. The 
action took place in the Los Angeles Sports Arena and shows Ken 
Stanley of the Trojans catching a right from a fan 29 seconds before 
the end of the game. UCLA won this dilly, 72 to 70. 1960, United 
Press International, Inc. Below. Pardon My Back by Martin Blu- 
menthal, Sport Magazine. Probably the slickest basketball player of 
our times is here depicted handing off the ball behind his back. His 
name Bob Cousy, of course. The team the world pro champs the 
Boston Celtics. @ I960, Macfadden Publications, Inc. 







329 




Above. "Splursh" by Gil Fried- 
berg, The Boston Globe. A junior 
golf tournament was played on a 
wet day between two very wet boys. 
These two finalists were most soli- 
citious of each other as one held 
the umbrella when the other put- 
ted. Boy now shooting won the 
match on the 20th hole. I960, 
The Boston Globe. Right. Sorry, f 
Wrong Number by Larry Day, j 
Des Moines Register and Tribune. 
Woody Hayes, the coach of Ohio 
State, throws his telephone down 
after Iowa's Larry Ferguson broke 
away for a 91 -yard touchdown. Final 
score was 35-12 against the Ohio 
Buckeye team, and both Hayes and 
AT&T are unhappy about the re- 
sults. I960, Des Moines Register 
and Tribune 




330 







Above. Seven-Foot Pin Wheel 
by Edward T. Adams, The Phil- 
adelphia Bulletin. John Thomas, 
the sensational high jumper of 
Boston University, looks like a 
giant pin wheel as he comes 
down after jumping seven feet 
at Convention Hall, Philadel- 
phia, Pa. I960, The Philadel- 
phia Bulletin Right. Bragg 
Over by George Miller, New 
York Journal- American. Amer- 
ica's great pole vaulter is here 
shown breaking the pole vault 
record at Madison Square Gar- 
den in New York City in March, 
1960. I960, The New York 
Journal-A merican 




331 





Flying High by Ken Ross, The Memphis Press-Scimitar. This extra 
jump availed little as Harry Smith, a PBA bowler, failed to get his 
strike and ran out of the real money. The photographer, however, got 
the good shot. I960, The Memphis Press-Scimitar 



332 




And He Walked Away Safely by Larry Sharkey, Los Angeles Times. 
The sequence depicted here took place in the Grand Prix for Sports 
Cars in Riverside, California. The tremendous impact, the flames, 
and the driver scurrying to safety make for a most dramatic sports 
picture. I960, Los Angeles Times 




333 




Above. The Hard Way by Joel Schrank, United Press International, 
An unusual spill at Squaw Valley occurs when Chili's Cortes does an 
awkward-looking split as he starts an end-over-end tumble down slope 
during men's slalom run in the Winter Olympics. I960., United 
Press International,, Inc. Right. By a Tongue by Thomas L. Shafer, 
United Press International. Venetian Way disdaining the usual method 
of winning by the nose tries it by the tongue. The action occurred in 
the Kentucky Derby in Louisville and his was the big win of the year. 
I960, United Press International, Inc. Below. Bo it Yourself by 
Herbert Ludford, United Press International. The name of the horse 
is "Do it Yourself and that is exactly what he seems to be saying as he 
throws jockey Bill Rees through the air at Plump ton, England. The 
fallen jockey managed to scramble back on his horse to get a better 
view of the horses that finished ahead of him. I960, United Press 
International, Inc. 




334 



.V 





335 




Mascot Emotes by Bob Doty, Dayton Journal Herald. In any 
game, basketball or otherwise, the good photographer can 
always catch at least one memorable moment, and this one 
occurred when the Virginia Tech mascot saw his team lose to 
the University of Dayton. I960, Dayton Journal Herald. 



336 



(continued from front flap) 

Syracuse Herald- American cops the Best 
News-Feature Story award with It Ended 
In Silence, an impressive story of the 
soundless gloom that enshrouded the Syr- 
acuse bench the day Syracuse suffered its 
first football defeat after 16 consecutive 
victories. Best Magazine Story is a first- 
time win for Jimmy Breslin of True. His 
Racing's Angriest Young Man, a vivid 
and moving portrait of Bill Hartack, the 
jockey who can't stand to lose, was the 
unanimous choice of the judges. 

Boih the photograph prize-winners are 
first-timers. The action-picture award goes 
to Paul Connel! of the Boston Globe for 
Basket Hanger, an aptly named, action- 
filled shot of the Boston Celtics' Tom 
Heinsohn hanging onto the basket after 
working on a rebound in a game against 
the St. Louis Hawks. Ed Clarity of the 
New York Daily News takes the feature 
award for Opening Day, a picture of an 
"expert" at work, sitting at the track; 
reading the racing news, pencil behind 
ear ready for choices, full of confidence 
and with a hole in the sole of his shoe. 

The best photographs of the year, a list 
of last year's champions, with a special 
section on the Olympic winners, a Who's 
Who of contributors, and a special Pref- 
ace giving the reasons behind the judging 
complete this exciting, highly varied sum- 
mary of the very best of a thrilling sports 
year. 



E.P. DUTTON KW.fl & COMPANY 

300 PARK AVE. SOUTH 3MkjL' NEW YORK 10, N. Y. 





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